


The Maid(en) Fair

by GrannySmut



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Drama, Eventual Smut, F/M, Light Angst, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 20:54:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 42,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16003112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrannySmut/pseuds/GrannySmut
Summary: Joffrey has found a creative punishment for Sansa- to live the life of a servant. Good thing she has her trusty Dog at her side!





	1. The Royal Decree

**Author's Note:**

> Took some liberties with the timeline, and Sansa is aged up here. Based off the books more than the TV show, but they are definitely a bit combined :)

The summons came in the early morning hours.

Sansa was still abed when a thumping on her chamber door awoke her, jolting her from a dream of warm halls, Lady's soft fur, and a sweet voice humming a familiar lullaby she couldn't quite place. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes until her chamber swam into focus. All was cloaked in heavy shadows, the last flickers of her dying fire somehow making it all seem darker. No dawn light peeked through her window, but the distant chirping birds heralded the coming day.

The thumping at her door returned, more insistent this time.

She slipped from her warm bed, her heart already pounding sickly in her chest. Being awoke at this hour was unnatural and could bring no good tidings. She could not fathom who could be at her door. The only people to cross her doorway in the past weeks were servants, but they would have no business with her in these small hours.

The unknown weighed heavy and filled her chest with dread.

She made for the door, then remembered and doubled back. She quickly bundled up the cloth she was using as a bed covering and stuffed it into the chest at the foot of her bed. Raising up again, she snatched up her sleeping robe from her chair and padded to the door as the thumping returned a third time. Her door shook beneath the knocks.

"Who is it," she called out, feeling small and wishing for all the world that a kind voice would call back from the other side.

"Me," the gruff voice from the other side rasped. "Open up."

Sansa unlatched her door and swung it open slowly. Sandor Clegane took up the entire door frame. He loomed over her with a scowl twisting the unburned side of his face and his armor clanked as he stepped over the threshold.

"Good morrow Ser, how fares your day?" Sansa asked as pleasantly as she could. A wild rush of relief that it was Sandor Clegane at her door quickly fled as realization dawned on her. Joffrey must have plans for her today.

"Piss off with that chirping," Sandor growled, clearly unhappy with being out of bed before the light of dawn. His gray eyes were bloodshot and the smell of last night's wine wafted over with each word. He seemed to want to look at anywhere but her but wasn't having much success. "Put some bloody clothes on. The king demands your presence."

She glanced down and realized that her robe had become untied, revealing her sleeping gown. Like the rest of her clothing it was ill fitting, too short, and much too tight. She had let out the seams as far as she could but she had simply outgrown it too rapidly for it to do much good. Her cheeks reddened and she quickly tied her robe shut again. It wasn't proper to be in the same room as a man while in one's sleeping clothes, and it was especially improper when one's sleeping clothes covered so little.

She cleared her throat, "A moment, please."

"A moment only. You don't want to keep him waiting," he nodded as he stepped back over the threshold and turned his massive back to her. She softly shut the door behind him and dressed as quickly as she could manage. She had ran her brush through her hair while swishing mint water in her mouth, spat, and was already slipping on slippers one handed when she opened her door again. Sandor nodded his approval at her speed, then turned and began walking to the throne room without glancing back to make sure she followed. She scurried to catch up. After a few steps of keeping pace, she smoothed down the front of her dress and glanced at the large man beside her.

"Did my traitor brother launch another attack?" She asked, needing to know what she would be punished for this time.

"Not recently," he rasped.

"Has there been news about the king's uncle? Is Ser Jaime in good health?"

"No news."

"What of the other houses? Did more turn traitorous and join my brother?"

"No," he glared in irritation. "Stop with all the damned questions. I know as much as you. Dragged out of my bloody bed, barely an hours rest, only to find the king still awake and in a rage. Been three days without sleep for him and seems he wants us all to join in that fucking count."

"What ails him?" Sansa asked, her fear mounting.

Sandor snorted and did not reply.

"Did he say why he wanted to see me?"

"Why else, little bird?" She nodded in understanding and asked no more questions. The king didn't need a reason for his cruelty.

The Hound held open the throne room's door for her, led her to the throne, then took his place beside the boy-king. Cersei sat beside Joffrey, an icy presence that chilled the rest of the room. Only they occupied the chamber, all others still sleeping at this hour. Sansa knelt before them both and kept her head bowed as she waited for Joffrey to speak.

She wrung her hands as though that might ease the knot sitting in the pit of her stomach. The last time she had stood in the throne room she had been stripped and beaten by Ser Meryn. That was weeks ago. Her bruises had finally faded and she did not wish to replace them so soon, but she knew her wishes would not be taken into account for whatever was about to happen.

Finally, Joffrey's high voice cut across the tension, "Pack your belongings."

"Yes, Your Grace," Sansa murmured and peeked up. "Will I be traveling?"

"No, you stupid girl," his fat worm lips twisted into a sneer, "I am doing what should have been done moons ago. You are kin of filthy traitors, and have no right to pollute a chamber in this royal keep!"

"Of course, Your Grace," Sansa's stomach twisted in unease. "I am a fool, and my traitor brother is a fool. I don't deserve the mercy you've shown me."

The boy-king settled back into his seat, cruel glee lighting his eyes. "No, you don't deserve it. I shall extend it to you all the same, since I'm such a merciful king."

"Oh thank you, Your Grace," Sansa gasped and dared peek up further from her lowered gaze. She had been banished to her room after her punishment those weeks ago, and had not seen Joffrey since then. She was frightened by the changes she saw. Joffrey sat in rumpled clothes, most likely the same he had worn yesterday and perhaps the day before that. Dark circles rimmed his pale, watery eyes, and a rapid tic took up residence in his right eye. Something seemed to be eating away at him, like a dog gnawing at a bone. She suspected it had to do with Robb's spree of successful battles, but she couldn't be sure.

Sansa darted her gaze to Cersei and found her less rumpled than her son, but just as tired looking. Her golden hair was perfectly coiled, her scarlet gown was freshly pressed, but her eyes were weary and the corners of her mouth sagged. She clearly did not approve of whatever was about to happen. Sansa snapped her eyes back to Joffrey.

"Your head belongs on a spike, right beside your father's and your useless brother's," he spat.

"As you say, Your Grace," Sansa agreed.

"Instead, you shall be stripped of your nobility. No longer will you be considered a lady born and bred, but shall be regarded as the common traitorous scum you are."

"Your Grace?"

"Silence! As a commoner you have no right to address your king. You shall live and work among the servants as a chambermaid. Scrubbing filth and cleaning chamber pots is the least of what you deserve. This is my royal decree. Ah, here comes Ser Mandon now, returned from arranging your new position," he chortled as footsteps drew closer behind Sansa.

"Your Grace," the guard bowed his greeting, "All has been done to your instructions. The kitchen awaits her arrival." The man's straw colored hair was ruffled, as though he had been roused quite suddenly in the night by the king's demands.

Joffrey snickered and waved his limp hand in dismissal, "Good. Hound, lead the traitor to the servants quarters." She swallowed thickly and curtsied, her head reeling. As she spun round to leave she caught a flash of Joffery's satisfied sneer and Sandor's unreadable scowl as he advanced after her.

The walk back to her old chambers seemed much faster than the walk from it. She had told herself the entire way from the throne room that she must remain a lady in disposition if not in name. They would not take her courtesies from her. As such, she ought not sniffle and whine in front of company. It would be unseemly.

 _It's downright crass to be doing so despite my own warnings_ , she thought as she angrily swiped away moisture from her cheek. It was foolish to sniffle over this, for it would change nothing. She screwed her eyes shut tight. She didn't know how to scrub floors. She didn't know how to clean a hearth. She didn't know how to wash linens. She didn't know what to do with a full chamber pot. She didn't know how cruelly the others would treat her without her title as protection. She didn't know anything. She was finally the stupid little girl they all thought her to be.

"Here, little bird," a voice from above her head rasped. A large hand gently dabbed at her face with a rough-spun handkerchief before pressing the cloth into her hand. "There's little time for that now. Pack your sturdiest dresses and what little things you have of value. They will not let you return here after you leave."

"Thank you, my lord," she said softly, her eyes still closed.

"I'm no noble, how many times do I have to tell you that?" Sandor snapped, and suddenly his voice seemed further away.

 _Neither am I_ , she thought, finally trusting herself enough to open her eyes without risking further tears. She found Sandor standing by her dressing table, gathering her combs and brushes in his arms, before marching over to her closed chest. He leaned down as though to open the lid. Her heart jolted, and she sprang forward.

"Oh, let me open that," she nearly shouted and she slid to her knees at his feet. Sandor frowned down at her, but she paid him no heed. She opened the lid, angling her body to hide the contents from his view. She shuffled her gowns around until she was satisfied the cloth she'd shoved in this morning was hidden from view, then rose. He dumped his armful in unceremoniously. Together, the two of them made short work of packing up her life into her small chest.

He snapped the chest lid closed, lifted the chest as though it weighed nothing, and nodded his chin to her door. She obeyed, scurrying to open it for him. She did not look back as she shut the door behind them both. There was no use lingering.

He led her down winding hallways to a section of the keep she had never seen before. Fewer torches lit this way, as though they were loath to waste precious light on the lowly servants.

She thought of Jeyne Pool and wondered not for the first time where she had gone. After her father's imprisonment, her servant and young friend had vanished. She had heard Jeyne was taken to see her own father, but she didn't know if she believed it. She wanted to believe it, which as she had learned was reason enough to distrust it. She had wanted to believe Joffrey's love, but she had seen where that had led her. She thought of her father's tarred head on that horrible spike and shuddered.

Her betrothal to Joffrey had been broken a few days after her brother Robb won the first battle of his rebellion. Cersei and the small council had pressed that it was impossible to mar their lovely royal lineage with the blood of traitors, and so the agreement was severed.

She had always been kept as a hostage, but after that it became more obvious and less effort was taken to hide it. Her handmaids had been dismissed, and despite her clear need of it no new gowns had been made for her when she outgrew her old ones. She was no longer welcomed in the dining hall, instead she was sent her meals in her room. The other courtiers shunned her openly, sneering and scoffing when she came near. Small public beatings occurred on Joffrey's orders. It had carried on this way for weeks and weeks.

She feared to know how much worse her life would be as a servant. If little Jeyne could be made to vanish without a trace, what would they do to her?


	2. Murky Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has her first day of servant's work

The smell of cooking food wafted over her, and a cacophony of voices and clattering broke her from her thoughts. They rounded the next corner and found themselves in the midst of the bustling kitchen. Servants ran to and fro, arms leaden down with trays of food, baskets of fresh linen, and cooking utensils. While the rest of the castle slept, the servants were already wide awake and preparing for the day. A portly woman, her thick grey hair twisted away from her face, broke through the mass of swirling bodies and glared at the two of them.

"No room," she snapped, her Summer Isles accent thick. "We're expecting those Tyrell shits in a few weeks time and have no rooms to spare for the girl. All are spoken for, like I already told that idiot Mandon."

Sansa had heard nothing of the Tyrell's upcoming visit, but she was hardly surprised. She was barely spoken to, and when she was it was with cruel words and sneers.

"W-Where am I to stay, my lady? I am not permitted to return to my old rooms." Sansa felt bold. "Surely there is space enough for me to share a room with another."

"Aye, I suppose there could be. All the kitchen girls, handmaids, and chambermaids are two to a room- they would revolt if they had three. The soldiers have begun doubling as well, not sure how much space is left. The only ones with single rooms still are the nobles and the kingsguard. Could be you'd have space enough at the foot of one of their beds." The head cook smirked.

Sansa felt her cheeks redden in shame at what the rude woman was suggesting.

"Perhaps I could sleep here, in the kitchens. There is space enough by the hearth," she tried again.

"I'd rather not come in here to find your face eaten off by the rats, if it's all the same to you m'lady," she drawled.

Sansa felt the blood drain from her face.

"Enough," Sandor snapped. "The girl is here by the king's orders. She is to be housed in the servants quarters. Do you defy your king?"

The large woman bristled. "Of course not! There ain't no room for her is all. The king ordered we keep half of the rooms free for whatever damned servants the Tyrells drag along with them. I dare not defy that king's order either. We have spare rooms for the nobles, but as you said she must remain in the servants section."

"Oh for-" Sandor bit off his curse and spun round, the corner of his burnt lip twitching madly. He stormed back the way they had come.

Sansa jogged after him and nearly ran into his broad back when he stopped in front of a door many twisting hallways later. Balancing Sansa's chest in one arm, he opened the door with a creak and stepped over the threshold. Sansa did the same, and studied the room.

It was small, much smaller than her old rooms. A largish bed took up half of the right wall, which spoke more to the size of the room than the bed. A small table and chair stood in the opposite corner of the room, a flagon and a overturned cup on the grimy table. The other corner help a chest, a heap of old clothes, and a wash stand. Between both corners stood an empty fireplace. The stone ground was bare, the single window shuttered, and a staleness hung in the air.

"Where are we?" She breathed.

"My room. You'll keep your chest in here while we find sleeping quarters for you," came the rasping reply. He refused to meet her eyes as he thumped down her chest beside his own, kicking his old clothes out of the way as he did so.

"What will we do if we can't find any?" She asked, the lump in her throat loosening at that thought of _we_. It made her feel warm to know she wouldn't be expected to do it all alone, almost as though she had a friend again.

He grunted but did not reply right away. "Go back to the kitchens. Start your work for the day. I'll fetch you in the evening."

Sansa did so. The head cook sent her to trail after Grette, another chamber maid. Grette was a stick thin girl with an upturned nose and a look upon her face as though she always smelled something foul. She did not introduce herself, but instead shoved a bucket full of soapy water at Sansa and barked, "Scrub this hallway. When you're done, knock on the doors and if no one's in them scrub those floors too."

"Where shall I find fresh water once this becomes murky?" Sansa asked.

Grette glared. "You make do with the murky water like the rest of us, m'lady Lamb Hands."

Grette quickly grew tired of Sansa's questions and her slowness and her inexperience.  Sansa was miserable. Her hands stung from the strong soap they used to scrub the floors, her shoulders ached beneath the weight of the water bucket, and her empty belly growled in protest by the time the mid-morning bells rang.

The changing of bed linens was just as awful. The old sheets were sour, covered in stains she tried not to study too closely. Sweeping the hearths was suffocating work, her pale blue dress became smeared with ash, and she felt as though she would forever have a cloud of dust hanging over her head. The worst chore by far was the chamber-pots. She dry heaved more than once, much to Grette's amusement.

She held the pot as far from her face as possible and trudged to the nearest water closet to dispose of the foul liquid. So far she had been lucky in avoiding any nobles. Every room they cleaned was empty of life. The same could not be said for the path to the water closet.

The first person she crossed sneered and held his nose. The second laughed themselves into a stupor. The third scoffed and looked through Sansa, as though she were nothing but a fog. She found she much preferred that reaction and wished more people would ignore her. Invisibility suited her just fine.

The noon meal came and went, a thick stew and crust of bread that gave Sansa enough energy to not collapse half-way through the day. They ate apart from the other servants, balancing their bowls on their laps in the yard behind the kitchen. She delicately nibbled on the bread and tried not to wince when Grette lifted her bowl to mouth, licking the last of the stew from the bottom.

Sansa cleared her throat and smiled as charmingly as she could manage.

"Grette," she began, "How long will the Tyrell house be visiting?"

"Fuck if I know," Grette spewed past a mouth full of bread. "They'll be here long enough to out stay their welcome, I'd wager. Twice the work for half the pay it's worth."

"Do you know when they'll be arriving? And for why?"

"A fortnight, maybe less," she chewed and shrugged. "They've come to shove that Tyrell whore in the king's face and hope to all the gods that his cock takes a liking."

"Grette!" Sansa gasped at her crass language. "Where did you even hear that?"

"They're all saying it. They need a royal heir before the angry twat offs himself in a fit of madness. His temper's been getting worse and worse. The last servant to clean his room came back out beaten bloody by the little shit. She won't never be rid of her limp."

Sansa nodded in understanding. She didn't need to be told of Joffrey's descent into madness. She had seen enough proof to last seven lifetimes.

"You done, Lamb Hands? Those shit pots won't scrub themselves," Grette smirked and stood abruptly. Sansa's stomach turned at the memory of the chamber pots, and suddenly had no more appetite for the other half of her stew.

The rest of the day was no better than the beginning. She spent it scrubbing, washing, sweeping, lugging, kneeling, and sweating through her gown. More than once, her long hair fell over her shoulder and landed in the washing water, leaving a scummy residue on her strands she tried to ignore.  The ultimate insult to her injury came near the end of the day.

"Oy, Lamb Hands," Grette called. "Come here. You're a tall one, ain't you? Take this torch and light the other ones down this hallway. I'll be round the corner lighting the other lot."

Sansa nodded and took the offered lit torch. Where Grette had to lift to the tips of her toes to reach the unlit torches, Sansa was tall enough to simply lift her arm. And so, she lifted her arm. A resounding rip echoed through the hall. She glanced down and saw the long tear that had opened along the side of her dress. A breeze wafted the flames of her torch and sent a chill to the bare skin exposed along her rib.

She sighed and fingered the torn material. "The stitching must have weakened from all the scrubbing today," Sansa murmured out loud.

"Oh what a shame," a slippery voice oozed from over her shoulder.

She spun around, the torch held out in front of her like a sword. Petyr Baelish stood before her, a smirk covering his face, his hands help up in surrender.

"I thought I was alone," she gasped.

"You've never been truly alone," he whispered. "You have true friends in the court, and I want you to know I'm counted among them." His eyes lingered too long on her exposed rib, and she struggled to suppress a shudder.

"That's too kind of you, my lord," Sansa began, but Petyr interrupted her before she could continue.

"No, not at all. I'd heard the king had stripped you of your title and sent you off to the servants but I didn't believe it. I can't help but feel as though I could have stopped this." He lifted a hand to her grimy hair and gripped a lock. His hand rested on her exposed flesh above her bodice's collar, but his firm grip on her hair kept her from backing up as she wished to. The smell of mint washed over her in overpowering waves.

"I know there is little spare room in the servant's quarters. If ever you lack a place to rest your head, know that my door is open for you. The king need not know." His eyes traced a line from the swell of her chest, down to her exposed ribs, then down further. Suddenly, she heard the unsaid words, _my bed will always welcome you._ His offer filled her with anger.

"Now that is truly too kind. I wish not to bring the king's displeasure upon you. He knows what is best, and he has decreed I ought to earn my way as a servant in the servant's quarters. I shall do as I was commanded, just as you will do as you were commanded. I bid you good night, My Lord." Sansa straightened her spine and tugged on the hair in his grip.

His cool eyes glittered in the torchlight. He kept his grip tight a moment longer, then released her.

"Good night, my lady."

Sansa turned and began walking before he could add more. She did not care that not a single torch has been lit in the hall, simply needing to put as much space between herself and her mother's old friend. She knew what his true offer was, and it made her skin crawl. How dare he proposition her? How dare he betray her mother's friendship like that? The more she thought on it the angrier she became.

She made her way back to the kitchen, and sat on a stool by the great fire, stewing on the exchange. She tossed the torch still in her hands into the fire and ignored the small handful of servants preparing the kitchen space for the next day.

Sandor found her there a short while later, just as he had promised. His face was grim, and for a moment she worried Joffrey had added to her punishment. That thought chased all the anger out of her.

"Little bird," he began, "Come along." She followed him as he stomped back to his quarters. He swung open the door harder then needed. She flinched when it bounced off the wall behind it. He slammed the door shut with as much vigor.

"Has your day fared well?" Sansa asked politely.

"No," he snarled. "It hasn't. That buggering kitchen whore was telling the truth. There isn't a spare room in the entire godsforsaken keep."

Sansa gazed up at his scowl. "What shall we do?"

Sandor did not answer. He threw himself into the only chair and unstopped the flagon on the table only to realize it was already empty. He tossed it to the side in disgust.

"Perhaps I could stay in the kitchens? Surely the head cook was jesting about the rats," Sansa offered, wishing to smooth away his rancid mood.

"She wasn't."

"Oh," Sansa murmured. They both lapsed into silence.

Petyr's offer sprang to mind, and it filled her with disgust. She would never lower herself in the way he had demanded. She glanced over to her chest sitting snugly in the corner of Sandor's room, almost as though it had always belonged there, and an idea filled her head.

Feeling safe in her decision, Sansa took a step forward and smoothed down the front of her stained dress.

"Perhaps...Perhaps I could stay here. It is in the servants' quarters as King Joffrey requested, and there is room enough in front of the hearth for myself. I promise I won't take up much room, and I'll stay quiet."

She cast hopeful eyes up at him, then shrank back at the fury she found.

"Stay here?" Sandor's mouth twitched and twisted terribly. "Aye, all curled up at the foot of my bed like a nesting bird. Just as if I was one of those true knights you love so well, yes. What do you think a knight is for, girl? You think it’s all taking favors from ladies and looking fine in gold plate? I have no use of your bloody chirping."

Sansa twisted her hands together and set her shoulders. "Why are you always so hateful? I don't presume to stay without earning my keep. Your room will be kept tidy, your floors scrubbed, your armor polished."

"And what if I wanted more than that," the hound rasped darkly, his eyes blazing.

"You don't," Sansa shook her head and smiled softly. "I've seen men who do and you don't have their look."

His gaze bore into her, burning with challenge, and something else she couldn't name.

Sansa held his gaze. "You won't hurt me."

They both stayed still for a few moments, then Sandor shook himself and broke their eye contact. "No, little bird," he said softly. "I won't hurt you."

He stood quickly, as though his seat had stung him, and left the room without another word or glance. She lifted a hand to her pounding heart. She knew it was not pounding in fear but she could not place what else it could be. Perhaps it was that look in his eyes. Sansa stood beside his bed, suddenly unsure of what to do with herself.

She crossed to the other side of the room, and began gathering his discarded clothing. It would be best to prove herself before he returned. She sifted through dust crusted tunics, ripped pants, and small clothes that made her blush. At the very bottom of the pile, she found a bed roll bundled up tight as though he had forgotten about it after returning from a journey. She wondered if it was from his trip to Winterfell all those moons ago.

She folded the clothing together and shoved it into a discarded pillow covering. She would ask Grette tomorrow where the linens were washed, then wash the clothing there herself. She used an old wash cloth to scrub the wine-sticky table, then smoothed down his bedding. Satisfied that the room was tidier than before and too exhausted to do more, she unrolled the bed roll and laid it before the empty hearth. 

She gazed longingly at her chest, but knew she couldn't risk wrapping herself in the cloth hidden in there lest Sandor see it upon his return. Sansa laid down on the bed roll and pulled it as high as it could go, barely noticing how hard the stone floor was, then drifted to sleep.

She awoke only once in the night, to Sandor stumbling in. The thick smell of red wine filled the room to bursting. The room was pitch black, but she could hear him shuffle past her head to his where his bed roll had been kept. He patted around blindly in that corner before realization dawned on him. He paused over her, as though able to make out her shape through the gloom. He said not a word, simply shuffled over to his bed. A loud thwump sounded as he threw himself into his bed. Loud snores soon followed.

When Sansa next awoke, thin beams of morning sun slanted through the window's shutters. Sandor's bed was empty and rumpled. She rose with stiff limbs to begin another day as a chambermaid.


	3. Uppity Handmaids

The next day was no easier than the last.

Her arms throbbed in complaint, her legs ached from kneeling, and she felt stiffer than she ever had before.  Grette was fouler than yesterday, too.

"Where did you go last night? I came back round to find the hallway still dark and you nowhere in sight! I don't give two shits if you had some ponced up lord waiting for your nightly tumble- your whoredom waits until our job is done," Grette snarled at her when she limped into the kitchen.

Sansa opened her mouth to correct Grette, but the thought of having to explain Petyr's unwanted attention last night made her feel weary. Instead, Sansa nodded demurely. "My apologies Grette. I shall work twice as hard today to amend for yesterday."

"Damn right," she grumbled. "We're off to the Western chambers today, since we did the Southern ones yesterday. We break up the work between us girls, each of us doing a different section of the keep each day. Grab that bucket and follow me."

"What of food? Shall we break our fast before we begin cleaning?" Sansa's hollow belly grumbled lowly.

"No, m'lady Lamb Hands, we already did while you lay lolling about in bed. You'd best rise earlier if you want to eat. Now, go grab that bucket before I tip it over your head."

She set her mouth in a firm line and did as she was bid.

The Western side of the keep held more nobles than the Southern side had, but the rooms were just as empty. It seemed as though none of the lords and ladies could stand the stifling heat of the rooms and preferred to linger in the shade of the gardens.

Sansa dearly wished she could be in their place.

She paused in front of the next chamber door and pushed a sweat sticky clump of hair behind her ear. She knocked as Grette had shown her, and nearly dropped her bucket in surprise when a voice drifted out.

"Who is it?" The thin voice called.

"It's the chambermaid- come to clean your rooms, my lady," Sansa called back, hoping that was the right thing to say.

"You may enter," the voice replied.

Sansa pushed the door open and gently lowered her bucket to the floor as she sank into a curtsy. "Good morrow, my lady," Sansa murmured.

"The same to you," the lady replied. Sansa raised her head and surveyed the room. Lollys Stokeworth sat upon the massive bed, her bed clothes a disarray around her. A plate of half eaten food balanced on the pillow beside her, and a simple smile graced the large lady's face. Sansa had heard the girl was slow minded but had not spoken with her before now. She was not certain she had recognized her, but Sansa hoped she didn't. It would be nice to be no one to someone, even for a little while.

"Who is this?" A sharp voice from the other room drew her attention. A Lorathi accent lilted her words, but they did nothing to soften them.

"The cleaner," Lollys announced.

"Yes, I can see that," A beautiful, dark haired woman entered the main bedchamber. "But why is Sansa Stark the cleaner?"

Sansa felt her cheeks redden. "The king felt I was better suited as a servant than as a traitorous noble lady. He was very wise in his decision, and I appreciate the mercy he has shown me."

"Of course," the dark haired woman sniffed. "I am Shae, lady Lollys' handmaiden. I am the one to clean this room, not you. Get out."

"A-are you certain? I was told to clean any empty room I came across."

"Does this look empty to you?" Shae snapped in reply. "Go clean a different room."

Sansa glanced to Lollys who still had her simple smile firmly in place. She lifted her bucket of murky water and dipped her head in goodbye.

"Farewell my lady Lollys, Shae."

Sansa frowned as she scrubbed the floors in the next chamber. It was one thing to be looked down on by other nobles, even by other chambermaids for her lack of knowledge. But being scorned by a handmaiden rankled and sat ill with her. All servants were equal, were they not?

They were not, as she found out when the next handmaiden she came across tossed her head and sneered, "Filthy little cleaning whore." Sansa bowed her head and glared into the foul contents of the chamber-pot in her hands. It took more will power than she cared to admit to not dump the waste atop the rude woman's head.

Finally, the midday bell rang, summoning the servants to the kitchen for their meal. Grette and Sansa sat in the same corner of the kitchen yard as yesterday, their bowls of midday stew balanced on their dirty knees.

"Do the other servants treat all chambermaids poorly?" Sansa stirred the grease sitting on top the stew.

"Aye, I suppose they do. The head cook is fine enough, the kitchen girls too. It's those damned uppity handmaids that look down their noses at us."

"Yes!" Sansa exclaimed, glad to have someone to speak to about it. "I came across some today who refused to allow me to clean their lady's chambers."

"You're complaining they gave you less work to do?" Grette scoffed.

Sansa smiled thinly, then thought of the pillow covering full of clothing back in Sandor's bedchamber. "What do we do with soiled clothing? Is there a washer woman we bring them to in the keep?"

"There is, but not for the likes of ourselves. If you want those pretty silks washed you do it yourself or pay the washer woman and hope to all the hells she finds time to wash yours. Either way, you'd want to go to the washing well. It's round the corner and straight that way," Grette pointed with her spoon.

Sansa glanced down at her barely eaten food, then toward the direction Grette pointed. She held the bowl out to her hungry eyes and smiled invitingly. "Would you like the rest of this? I find I have an errand to run before returning to work."

"Suppose I do, and if you happen to be a moment or more coming back I'd reckon I'd be too busy digesting this fine meal to notice."

Sansa smiled politely and dusted the crumbs from her dress, keeping a ladylike pace until she was past the kitchens. Then, she ran as fast as her stiff legs could take her to Sandor's room. She paused to catch her breath, then pressed her ear against the door to listen. Nothing stirred on the other side. She eased open the door and slipped in.

She crossed the room quickly and scooped up the full pillow covering before pausing before her chest. She had stuffed her filthy, torn dress from last night into her chest that morning, and it suddenly occurred to her to bring it with her to wash along with Sandor's things. The sooner it was cleaned the sooner she could mend it. She dropped to her aching knees and lifted the lid.

She pulled out her sullied dress and stuffed it in the bag. She was reaching up to close the lid again when a flash of white caught her eye. She slowly reached down and shoved a silken scarf out of the way, then another, then picked up the mass of clothing that was in her way and threw it beside herself, suddenly feeling impatient. She delicately gathered up the fully revealed white cloth and brought it to her face.

It still smelled of him- of horse and leather and smoke and a bit of old wine.

That was how the Hound found her, her belongings strewn around her and her face buried in his old ragged cloak.

"What the seven bloody hells are you doing?" Sandor demanded.

Sansa's back stiffened. She hadn't heard him enter the room, hadn't expected him to return to his rooms in the middle of the day. She dropped the cloak to her lap and turned to face him.

"How fares you this day?" Sansa asked pleasantly with her heart hammering in her chest. She feared that he would laugh at her foolishness for keeping the cloak, or worse yet take it back.

"What are you doing with that old thing?" He asked, jutting his chin toward the cloak still on her lap.

"Nothing," she replied too quickly. "I mean to say, I am gathering clothing to take to the washer woman."

"All this mess to do that?" He asked as he stepped around the discarded clothing. "And why do you still have that filthy thing? Thought you'd have thrown it away by now."

Sansa did not reply. She turned her gaze down at the old ripped cloak on her lap. The white cloak, mostly gray from dirt, was the same he'd draped over her weeks ago in the throne room when Ser Meryn had beaten her.

"I meant to return it to you, only..." Sansa swallowed thickly and tried to decide how best to word the truth. "Only, it was so soft. It was quite nice to sleep with. I'm sorry for keeping it, I should have returned it right away."

Sandor glanced down at the rough, scratchy matrial and squinted at Sansa in confusion.

She couldn't bring herself to explain in the excruciating detail he seemed to be demanding. She couldn't make her voice explain that laying under that cloak was the only time she felt safe enough to sleep deeply and to dream of happier times, that the warm smell of leather, wine, and smoke that clung to fabric was the only thing able to bring her peace since her father's execution.

It was too silly.

It was too much.

It was too likely that he would sneer and call her a stupid bird.

"Always chirping your buggering courtesies, aren't you? You have all your sweet words memorized," Sandor rasped and shook his head. "You balled up this old cloak, shoved it in that chest, and forgot about it. Say it true, girl. You have no need for your sugared words as a cleaner, might as well get used to that."

"No!" She protested, "It's not like that."

He snorted and shook his head, reaching his long arm down to take the cloak from her. She gathered the fabric up to chest in a panic and hunched her shoulders around it.

"Please don't take it!" She exclaimed, feeling near tears, "It's the only thing that helps me sleep."

"Slept fine last night without it."

"Because you were right there!"

"What of it? Don't waste your chirping on me. I'm not a sweet knight from one of your fucking songs. Knights are for killing. I killed my first man at twelve. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve killed since then. High lords with old names, fat rich men dressed in velvet, knights puffed up like bladders with their honors, yes, and women and children too—they’re all meat, and I’m the butcher. Why would a killer make you sleep better?"

Sansa's mouth twisted in displeasure. "I know what a knight is, and I know what a knight does. I know what a vicious king with too much power can do, and I know what horrors a stupid little girl can cause. We can all do horrible things, but that doesn't mean we need to think on them always." Sansa felt the icy hands of guilt grip her throat. "I killed my father. I opened my stupid mouth and told Cersei that he was planning on taking us from King's Landing and I begged her to stop him. I didn't want to leave my beloved prince. She stopped him, and now he's dead and I won't ever leave my beloved prince. All as I wanted. All as I caused."

She sniffled thickly and gripped the cloak tighter.

"You help me forget that I did this. You make me feel safe."

"Oh, little bird," Sandor sighed. He dropped his outstretched hand and they stayed in silence for a few moments. Then he turned and left the room. She rubbed her wet face with her grubby sleeve and squared her shoulders.

She refolded the cloak, and placed it back in her chest. She threw the rest of her clothing in on top of it. She felt foolish and small for having said her truths. She should have known he wouldn't understand, should have nodded along when he accused her of carelessness.

She found the washing well where Grette had said, and she found the washer woman there too.

"How much for a wash?" Sansa asked the stooped woman.

"Depends," the old woman shrugged.

"Would this be enough to cover it?" She held out a thin silver chain, once part of the necklace Joffrey gave her. She couldn't stand the look of it any longer and had long since thrown the pendant away.

"Aye," the old woman's eyes lit in greed. "That would do it."

"Good. I'll be back this evening to collect the clean clothing."

She returned to Grette, who didn't mention how long it had taken her to run her errand. She simply tossed a rag at her and continued scrubbing.

Sansa collected the cleaned clothing as promised. She folded it nicely, and after a moment of hesitation stacked it atop Sandor's chest. It didn't feel right to open the lid and poke around his personal items. 

She fell asleep as quickly as the night before, and she did not awaken to Sandor returning to their shared room. When she awoke the next morning, his bed was rumpled from sleep and his old cloak was draped over her as a second blanket. She nestled beneath its comfort for a moment, then rose for another day of labor.


	4. Ought to be Demure

Each day bled into the next, a pattern of scrubbing, and sweeping, and sour sheets, and foul chamber-pots. Sansa awoke one morning to a hum of excitement coursing through the castle. Bells echoed through the keep, trumpets shouted shrilly, and a massive audience had gathered in the courtyard to greet the guests of honor.

The Tyrells had arrived.

First came Mace Tyrell, riding at the head of the procession, closely followed by his immediate family. Then came the outer family, then the lords of small houses around High Garden, then the servants of the main family, and of the outer family, and of the small lords. Then came the knights and guards who had kept the entire parade safe during their journey, and their squires and their servants. The traveling party was massive and glittering and golden and thunderously loud.

Sansa rubbed her fingers against the headache forming behind her eyes and sighed. She would have enjoyed it all immensely if there wasn't so much work involved. All the guest rooms had to be aired out, fresh fires lit in empty grates, dusty sheets swapped for newly laundered, and stack upon stack of luggage had to be carried in and worked around. Even if she had been given time to watch the golden procession arrive at the castle gates she would have been too exhausted to truly see it.

"Quit your fucking around," the head cook's harsh voice snapped Sansa from her thoughts. "We have no time for that! The king has announced a feast is to be held for those useless Tyrell shits, as though we didn't have enough work as it is. Go fetch the kitchen boys from the training yard. We'll need all the hands we can find."

Sansa bobbed her head in acknowledgement and handed her nearly empty mid-day meal bowl to Grette. They had eaten inside the kitchen for a change, and Sansa found she much preferred eating alone in the kitchen yard. The other servants had the foulest manners she'd ever seen.

"Find me in the Western side when you're done," Grette called after Sansa before tipping the bowl's contents into her mouth, a thin line of gravy leaking out the corner of her mouth. Sansa waved in agreement.

She made her way to the training yard, keeping her pace brisk but proper. She'd been a servant for about a fortnight and while she detested the grueling work she found she enjoyed the freedom to roam alone. As a lady she had been confined to her bedchamber and only permitted to explore with a chaperone and only if Joffrey permitted it. She inhaled a large lungful of humid air and let it out in a long sigh.

The ringing of swords sounded from ahead, and she paused beneath the arch leading to the filled training yard. Three pairs of men fought in the center, and a ring of waiting fighters and spectators circled the group. Puffs of dust flew in the air with each stomp, parry, and thrust. The sticky heat of the day caused some of the men to shed their armor, but Sansa's eye was drawn to only one.

The Hound fought against a large man, nearly as large as himself. He had shed his usual plated armor and steel mail, and his tunic as well. He had no use for his armor against the smaller man- he caught each oncoming blow with his sword.

Sansa gawked at him. She had seen men shirtless in the yards of Winterfell before but they were little twigs of boys compared to Sandor.

His thickly muscled arms twitched and tensed with every powerful swing of his blade. His burned scars ended below his jaw, but the rest of his body was covered in many battle scars. Thin and thick, pink and pale, they traveled down his back and over his chest. A number of them flecked his arms. Thick dark hair covered his broad chest and trailed down his bare torso, interrupted only by the scars before narrowing into a thinner strip of hair that vanished beneath his trousers. His stomach flexed and rippled when he lunged forward.

Sansa tore her eyes away with a blush. It was wrong and crass and common to stare at a man. One ought to be demure and keep their eyes downcast. She spun away from the fight in front of her and marched ahead. She was on a mission to collect the kitchen boys, and that was just what she'd do.

She found one familiar kitchen boy on the other side of the yard surrounded by rough looking older boys.

"Fredd," Sansa called out to the boy and waved her arm to catch his attention while she wove her way through the crowd. "Cook wants you in the kitchen. There's to be a feast."

"I'll be there when I'm ready to be there," Fredd said petulantly. His older friends chortled in amusement.

"She said she wanted you now," Sansa insisted. "Have you seen the other boys? She needs them as well."

"I'm not their keeper, how am I supposed to know where they go on their own time? Say," the boy drawled and eyed Sansa's tight bodice lustily. "Why don't you stay for awhile and be _my_ keeper? I'm sure we could find something to keep you busy."

His friends cackled in delight as she shrunk back. She found she didn't enjoy her lack of chaperone as much as she had earlier.

"Are you bloody deaf? The girl said to get your worthless hide to the kitchen. Go before I decide to teach you some fucking manners," a voice from above her shoulder growled. Sansa peeked up to see Sandor looming over them. It seemed he'd finished sparring for the day.

"Y-yes, Ser," Fredd gulped. His friends seemed to find the whole situation less funny than before and slunk back into the crowd.

"I'm no Ser. Go gather the rest of your tiny pricked kitchen workers and find that bitch of a head cook." Sandor glared until the boy nodded and melted into the crowd.

"Thank you," Sansa whispered past her dry throat. She hadn't been sure he'd heard her until he grunted and grasped her arm.

"Come, girl. You shouldn't be wandering with rough men like them. It'll only get rougher with the new arrivals. Those Tyrells brought their whole household and then some." He dragged her from the yard, leading her down a cool corridor she hadn't seen before. His burned face twitched and his mouth spasmed as though he wanted to spit. Finally, the corridor opened to natural light again. She blinked at the sudden brightness but he did not slow his stride. After a time, he halted suddenly and she found themselves in the royal gardens in front of the heart tree.

"None of those shits will have any interest in the new gods, let along the old. Stay here 'til those bastards get settled in and head into town. By the time the sun sets they'll be too busy at the whore houses to bother with you. Those kitchen boys'll be right beside the new company, hoping for good favour and shiny coins," he rasped.

Sansa squinted up at him, and realized with a start that he was still tunic-less. Her cheeks reddened and she spun round to face the heart tree. "Of course, my lord," she squeaked.

"I'm no lord. And what's this? Still can't look at me despite all your courteous chirpings," he snorted and stomped back the way they'd come before she could reply. She was almost glad for it. Her stomach fluttered in a queer way and she hoped she wasn't becoming ill.

She kneeled at the base of the heart tree and folded her hands on her lap. She had been here only once before, brought to give thanks with her sister Arya by their father when Bran had first awoken from his fall. She stifled the pang in her chest at the memory, and bit the inside of the cheek til the threat of tears passed. She missed Arya, and Bran, and her father.

She knew her hymns and her prayers to the Seven as closely as she knew her own face, but she didn't know how to pray to the old gods. All those moons ago, she had bowed her head and repeated her most courteous thanks in her mind until she'd fallen asleep beside her sister. She still didn't know if that was the right way, but it hadn't felt wrong.

She tried to do the same again, bowing her head and focusing her thoughts. It worked for a time, until a polite cough broke her thoughts. Sansa spun on her heels and found a lovely brown haired girl gazing at her in curiosity. Her large, doe eyes sparkled in interest. The sky was already darkening.

"How fares you this day?" Sansa asked politely.

"I am well, many thanks for asking. How fares you?" The young woman stepped closer.

"I am also well. I apologize for my ignorance, but I haven't seen you at court before."

"Oh worry not, my sweet lady! I have newly arrived this morrow from High Garden with my family. I am Margaery Tyrell," she sank into a small curtsy and the corners of her mouth rose warmly.

"Well met, lady Margaery," Sansa breathed. She recognized the name from Grette. _That Tyrell whore Margaery rode in on a golden horse this morn,_ she had cackled over breakfast, _and from the way he eyed her talk is the golden king will be ridden by his lovely strumpet before the day is over._ Sansa pushed the crass words aside and returned the lady's smile. "I fear there has been a mistake. I am but a chambermaid, not a lady."

"My apologies," Margaery had the grace to keep her smile in place. "I would still like to know your name, if you'd let me."

"Sansa Stark," she pushed past her dry throat.

"Stark? You are a lady after all! That is a noble house filled with noble blood."

"It is a traitorous house filled with traitorous blood," she corrected her. "The king in all his great wisdom and mercy has sent me away to a servant's life instead of executing me as I deserved. He has stripped me of my title and noble heritage. I will forever be in his debt for the charity he has shown me." She hoped it didn't sound as recited as it felt.

Margaery gasped, her mouth a perfect round circle of astonishment. "Can that truly be done? Surely he can't get away with doing this to a highborn lady!"

"He already has," Sansa felt tired.

"But what of his lady mother? She must-"

"She was there when he decreed it."

"The small council-"

"Cares not one whit of what happens to the kin of traitors."

"But there must be a way to undo this!"

"Perhaps there is, but I know it not and do not care to. It is better to live as this. The king forgets about me more often, and he hasn't brought me forward for a public beating since he made me a servant. I am..." Sansa struggled to find the word. "Content."

Sansa slapped a hand to her mouth in shock of her blunt words. She hadn't meant to bring up her public punishments.

"He would beat you?" Margaery's eyebrows knit together in a show of concern.

"He would punish me for my betrayer brother's actions, which I deserved. If you'll excuse me, my lady, the kitchen is expecting my return," Sansa gathered her skirts before she could blurt out anything else she ought not to. Margaery nodded her goodbyes and continued her walk through the gardens.

Margaery would please the king, Sansa knew. Her sweet face would incite his cruel streak, make him want to see her bleed. He would keep her until he broke her. She pitied the girl, but she thanked the old and new gods that she was not in her place. She hoped Margaery was wiser than she had been.

 _I brought this misery upon myself_ , she thought. _I fell for Joffrey's lies and was blind to Cersei's nature_. The guilt rose in a wave, as it tended to do, but she had little time to dwell on it.

The Tyrells brought enough people to fill the castle near to bursting. Lords, ladies, knights, and servants all followed them to the Red Keep- and with them came more work than Sansa had ever known possible.

She found herself collapsing into her bedroll that night, too tired to undress. Despite her exhausted limbs, her mind thrummed in activity. Tomorrow would be their turn to clean the Northern section, and she dreaded it deeply. That was where Margaery had been placed, along with her closest relatives. She feared finding Joffrey in Margaery's bedchamber and reminding him that she existed. He had not summoned her since he banished her to a servant's life, and she wished to keep it that way. Perhaps the fluttering in her belly would turn into a full illness and she would be too unwell to clean.

She was still awake when Sandor stumbled his way in, wine wafting like a perfume. She listened to him stomp to his bed,  the fumbling and clanking of metal as he undid his armor, the gentle jingle as he shed his mail, the soft whisper of fabric as he crawled beneath his sheets. His thunderous snores finally lulled her to sleep.


	5. Peep a Goodnight

Margaery Tyrell was a graceful girl, as full of courtesies as Sansa. The other servants whispered that she gave coppers out like a Septon gives blessings. Naturally, the servants jostled for the chance to attend to the generous lady. Sansa used this to her benefit.

"I will clean the Southern side if you'd rather have the Northern," Sansa offered to a chambermaid sitting by the kitchen fire the next morning.

"Oy!" Grette slapped Sansa's arm. "Don't be giving away our meal ticket so quick like. Mayhaps coppers and silvers matter not to you, m'lady Lamb Hands, but I like them just fine."

Sansa rubbed her arm and nodded. "You'd be going with Grette to the Northern side, and I'd take your partner to the Southern. Do you agree?"

The girl bobbed her head enthusiastically and flashed her missing teeth in a wide grin. Grette sighed and nodded in agreement.

"You'll find Hinny by the washing well, filling our buckets for the day," the toothless girl called over her shoulder as she followed Grette out.

Sansa found Hinny where she was said to be, but a second girl was huddled against her shoulder, sobbing loudly.

"H-he said if I showed my ugly face again he'd carve it off and make me e-eat it. And then he...he," the blonde girl's shoulders heaved with her sobs. "Oh what will I do? Can't leave the room as it is- the Queen Mother'll have my head if she finds that mess."

"There, there," Hinny patted her back soothingly and shot a withering glare at Sansa for daring to intrude on their space.

"My apologies for interrupting," Sansa ventured, "Your cleaning partner said I would find you here. You and I are to clean the Southern side together." She took a few steps closer and peered at the sobbing girl. "Are you well? Is there anything I could do to help?"

"Aye," the sobbing girl spat, "You could tell the twisted king to clean his corpses up himself!"

"Hush! You don't know who may be listening," Hinny hissed, but it was too late.

"Quit your sniveling! You'd think the king had killed your babe the way you're carrying on," the head cook rounded the corner and stomped toward them. "It was only a stupid little rabbit! They're food anyway, and that little princess was a fool to keep it as a plaything. You've been cleaning the king's chambers long enough to expect his harsh words and dead things. Why are you wasting time with this nonsense?"

"H-he cut me!" The blonde whined.

"Where?" The cook demanded.

She lifted her head from Hinny's shoulder and turned her bloody face toward the cook and Sansa. A long jagged gash carving from her temple down to her chin oozed dark blood. She dabbed a blood stained rag at it, then became overwhelmed and dove back into Hinny's shoulders. Her sobs were louder than before.

"Mother have mercy," the cook swore and shook her head. "Did he say anything while he did it?"

"He told her not to return," Hinny answered. "Then he ran off to lady Margaery's rooms. Probably carving her up too."

"I said to stop with that nonsense," the cook snapped. "Girl, go clean up the mess in the king's chamber. Be quick about it before he returns."

Sansa stood for a moment before she realized the cook was speaking to her. "Me? But only certain girls clean his rooms. And besides, I am to clean the Southern chambers today."

"I don't give a damn. The only _certain girl_ left is clearly indisposed, and we'll need time to find a replacement. In the meantime, go clean up the mess." The cook swung out a heavy hand, striking Sansa round the ear and sending her stumbling. Sansa did not wait for another strike. She scrambled to grab a washing bucket and walked as quickly as she could without tripping on her tight skirts.

Her grip on the bucket's handle was sweat slick and dread dogged her every step. The bridge across the spike filled moat surrounding Maegor's Holdfast loomed in front of her. A Kingsguard stood sentinel at the far end, as dangerous as the sharpened barbs below. She forced her feet to move forward.

Ser Preston Greenfield's mocking smirk was hidden behind his helm, but he did little to mask his snicker.

"Been spending an awful lot of time on your knees lately," he chortled. " _Scrubbing_ , was it?"

"As the king decreed," she said stiffly, her mouth pressed into a firm line as she marched past the rude man. She hadn't returned to Maegor's Holdfast since she was banished to the servants' quarters and she found she did not miss it in the slightest. She wished she was sweeping hearths in the Southern side instead, but she knew her wishes were rarely taken into account in her life.

She paused outside the door to the king's chambers, her ear pounding in time with her heart. Unable to delay the inevitable, she raised a fist and knocked briskly. She dearly hoped for no reply.

"Who is it?" A furious growl thundered from the other side.

"It is the chambermaid, come to clean the royal quarters," Sansa croaked back. Her throat had never felt dryer. The door flew open, and Sandor Clegane stood there like a massive wall. He glared down at her, his mouth twitching wildly.

"How fares your day," Sansa asked, relief making her knees weak.

"Piss off with that. What are you doing here?" He rasped.

"The cook sent me to clean. The other cleaning girl is...unwell right now."

"Unwell," he snorted, "I was here when she became _unwell_. You're lucky the king isn't back yet. Come in, and make it quick." He stepped back, allowing her to enter, then slammed the door shut.

Sansa surveyed the room with disgust. The polished stone floor was covered in pools of blood, one where the blonde girl must have been attacked, and another beneath a gory lump hanging from the wall. Chunks of glossy white fur littered the ground. She knew Princess Myrcella had a creamy white rabbit she adored, and she knew the young girl would be heartbroken when she learned of its fate. She set down the bucket and took a deep shaky breath.

 _I've seen worse_ , Sansa reminded herself. She set her shoulders and began scrubbing. Sandor took a seat on a chair by the fire, presumably where he had risen from to answer the door.

"Why aren't you with the king?" Sansa asked as she wrung her rag out over her bucket.

"He said I frighten his lady too much," he barked a short laugh. "Just as I frighten you still."

Sansa continued scrubbing and shook her head.

"You don't frighten me," she said softly.

"Is that why you can't bear to look at me? Why you feign sleep at night when I return to my room, can't bring yourself to peep a 'good night' to me? Don't lie to me, girl."

"You don't frighten me," she said firmly and set her rag aside. She gazed up and him and frowned. "Perhaps if you didn't return to our room so noisily, I would be able to stay asleep instead of feigning it. It is hardly my fault that your stomping awakens me. And I can look at you. I am looking at you right now, am I not?" Sansa did not let her gaze falter. She took in the twisted burned side of his face, shiny in the morning light. She watched his furrowed brow, his blazing gray eyes, the spasms his mouth made when he was deep in thought. She saw it all and refused to look away. Finally, Sandor broke their connection and glared down into the fire.

They said nothing more. She finished scrubbing away the crimes of the king, and carried her bucket of blood to the door before pausing. "I bid you good day," she said, not expecting a reply. She did not receive one. She mulled over their exchange for the rest of the day, that odd fluttering in her belly never quite leaving her.

That night, she awoke to Sandor opening his door. It creaked open with a squeal. "Fucking-" He swore under his breath at the piercing sound. He toed off his boots with a gentle thump at the door, then padded in stockinged feet to the bed. His armor clanked slower than usual, as though he was using extra care to remove it gently. His mail slid off with a jingle. A soft rustle sounded as he crawled under his bed covers.

Once he had settled, Sansa called up to him, "Good night and fair dreams."

He did not reply, but she didn't expect him to.

"Did you hear?" Grette asked her the next morning while they broke their fast. "The little princess is being sent away."

"Princess Myrcella?" Sansa asked as she swabbed the bottom of her porridge bowl with her chunk of bread.

"Aye. She threw a massive fit yesterday- threw her pretty gowns all about and sobbed herself hoarse. Reckon that was after they told her the news."

Sansa had an idea of the true cause of the princess's grief, but did not share it with her cleaning partner. The thought of the gory rabbit chased her appetite away, and she passed her porridge soaked bread to Grette.

"Where is she being sent?" She asked and brushed the crumbs from her fingers.

"Dorne. They say she has a wee little prince waiting for her there. In a few days time she'll set sail."

"So sudden," she remarked as she gathered up their cleaning rags.

"Not according to the gossip. Word is they'd been planning this for moons but didn't want to announce it before the king was settled with a bride." Grette licked the last of porridge from her hands and followed Sansa to the Eastern part of the keep.

"He's settled with a bride?" Sansa dropped the bucket and kneeled, ready to start scrubbing.

"Since yesterday, but they haven't announced it officially yet. They say he swept into lady Margaery's room all romantic like, fell upon his knees and begged her to marry him. Dunno how she managed to hook him after only a day, but I reckon I've got no business knowing. Leave that to the royally betrothed and whatever whore house she learned it at," Grette snickered and shook her head.

Sansa smiled thinly and scrubbed harder. After carving up the blonde girl's face he had rushed to Margaery's side to propose marriage. It sat ill with her, and she worried for the lady's well-being. They would all be better off if Joffrey was the one to be sent away- they would all be free of his hateful shadow. She envied Myrcella and her soon to be found freedom.

A few days passed, and Myrcella was packed up and sent away with much weeping and pomp. A barge draped in golden gauze took the young girl to her brighter future. It was noted among the gossip that while the young girl had embraced her mother and her younger brother, she had only stiffly nodded at the the king. Sansa had not attended, as was fitting for her lowly station.

That night, after Sandor had crept his way into his own room, gently and quietly undressed, and then laid his massive form down on his bed, Sansa called up to him.

"Did she look happy?"

There was a long pause before he replied.

"Did who look happy, little bird?"

"The princess. She's free now, and I wondered if she felt that yet or if she'll only feel it later, once she's on dry land again," Sansa twirled a loose thread from her white cloak around her finger.

"Couldn't say. Wouldn't know," Sandor rasped.

"I wouldn't know either. But I will one day."

He did not reply, but she knew from his breathing that he was still awake.

"Good night and fair dreams," she bid him.

She knew it was foolish to hope and dream of things that would take years to pass, if they happened at all. She couldn't help herself though, and so she hoped and dreamed all the same. She hadn't heard news of her brother for a moon, and she dearly hoped he was still winning battles. Eventually he'd fight his way to King's Landing, and then into the Red Keep, and then into the servant's quarters where he'd scoop her up and spin her round like a child, just as he had back at Winterfell.

Or maybe he wouldn't.

Perhaps she would catch the eye of a gentle lord who would love her truly and deeply. He would gather her in his thickly muscled arms and rasp sweet words into her ear as he smuggled her out of the Red Keep beneath his cloak. Sansa knew that was the most foolish dream of all, but she clung the hardest to it. She couldn't place why, but it felt the most right.


	6. A Putrid Fever

The last spasms of summer burned like fire. The days hung heavy without the relief of any breeze. The nights were just as bad, and Sansa often awoke with her sleeping gown stuck to her damp skin. With this burning wave came the whispers of another type of heat washing over the land, scorching and killing all who dared stand before it: a putrid fever. The stench of death hung over everything, and the overcrowding caused by the Tyrells did little to slow the spread.

It had washed over the land before in small patches. Sansa had been very ill with it as a child, back at Winterfell. Maester Luwin was not certain she would live, but she had. After seven days and nights of the fever burning through her small frame, she had woken up cool as an autumn breeze. "I'm terribly sorry for the fuss I've caused," she had chirped, ever the lady even then. She wasn't sure if that illness had kept her from catching it again, but while the other maids had fallen away one by one she remained standing.

The common people whispered that the Queen Mother had magicked this plague into being, that _that_ was why she had sent her daughter away to Dorne, that she had the cure but hoarded it to keep herself healthy. The whispers were fanned by the heavy heat and the cloying fear of the disease. They became shouts. Sansa feared what the wild eyed masses might do.

"Fetch the healer, girl," the head cook snapped at her one day, sweat pouring down her coarse cheeks. "That stupid washer woman has gone and gotten herself ill."

"I'll find the maester," Sansa began, carefully balancing her broom against the kitchen wall. She had traded her Northern section cleaning day with a kitchen girl, and she would have enjoyed the break from foul chamberpots immensely if not for the foul temperament of the cook.

"No! I said the healer, you useless thing," the cook narrowed her black eyes in irritation. "The maester will not be bothered to help a common lass like her. The healer is on the road leading to Flea Bottom, right before you enter it proper. The blue house with the red door. Tell her Maza sent you and that she'll be paid once she drags her warty arse up here."

"Outside of the keep?" Sansa squeaked.

"No, the Flea Bottom beside the throne room. What do you think?" The cook was in an especially vicious mood that day. When Sansa hesitated a moment longer she swung out a heavy hand and connected with Sansa's head. She staggered back, clutching the wall for balance. "Go!"

Sansa ran. She gathered her too tight skirts to her knees and ran until the gates were in front of her. A single queasy looking guard stood by the gate. Her head pounded in time with her pulse.

"Let me through. The cook has sent me to fetch the healer," Sansa said, proud her voice didn't tremble as much as she did.

The guard did not reply. He did not move. He did not breath. Sansa took a step closer to confirm that last part, and was horrified to find his glassy dead stare fixed on nothing. She swallowed down bile threatening to rise, and found the lever for the gates beside the dead man. Scrubbing the floors, lifting heavy pails of washing water, and carrying the weight of thick bedding day in and out for the past weeks had strengthened her arms, but it still took all of her strength to slowly creak the gate open.

Her hands stung from her tight grip, but she didn't have time to worry about it. She gathered her skirts up again and ran the rest of the way to the healer's house. Her legs felt like jelly, and her lungs burned as hot as the sun. She knocked weakly on the red door, hoping above all else that the healer was home.

She wasn't.

Sansa turned round and rested her back against the warm wood. A queer roaring surrounded her, but she dismissed it as her blood pounding in her ears. She feared returning to the keep empty handed, worried what the cook would do to her. She darted her gaze around her, and suddenly an old fear wormed its way to the top. A toothless man, his hair stringy with filth was staggering toward her from Flea Bottom, a horrible leer stretched across his gaunt face.

"Oy! Ain't you dressed all fine. What are you, some sort of highborn lady," the foul man spat.

"No," Sansa lied.

"Aye, you are!" He shouted, drawing the attention of two other men, each as horrible as the first. "You're dressed in fine silks while we common folk suffer under that witch Queen's curse."

"Hardly call that dressed," the second man purred as he eyed her tight bodice and too short skirt.

"What, off on a little adventure? Come to gawk at the suffering of us?" The third man glared.

"No," Sansa repeated and inched back up the street she had come from.

The first man darted after her, but Sansa was faster. She bolted back up the street she came from, passing the decaying bodies she hadn't noticed on her first passing of the street. She ran until her skirts tangled between her legs and she fell with a sickening thud. Even then, she didn't stop moving, dragging herself along on her hands and knees while trying desperately to untangle the fabric. An iron claw gripped her ankle, then spun her round on her back. The second foul man stood over her, and the other two weren't far behind.

"Did you think you could prance into our street and not pay a price? Listen well, you filthy high blooded bitch," the man shook her ankle viciously. "We ain't suffering for your amusement! What gold and gems have you got? Hand them over before I start looking for 'em."

"I have nothing! I am but a servant girl," Sansa managed to gasp. She kicked with her free leg, smacked and punched with her arms. "Stop it!"  
They did not listen to her and answered her with a scornful laugh. Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and wished desperately that she had never left the Red Keep.

The laughter cut off with a gurgle.

Sansa opened her eyes to find Sandor, his face a furious snarl, his armor glinting in the blazing light, and his sword dripping with blood. Relief filled her chest. The sword flew through the air, and the man holding her leg fell backwards. His head rolled down the hill they were on. The third man released his grip on her arm and tried to run, but Sandor cut him down swiftly in a cloud of blood.

Sandor spun in a quick circle, checking that no more threat remained. Curious eyes peered out from behind shutters, from alleys, from the gutters themselves. He sheathed his sword for now, reaching a soothing hand out to Sansa.

"It's alright, little bird," he rasped. "You're safe now."

Sansa grasped his warm, solid hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. She was hardly standing when his massive arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her to him. For a moment of madness she thought he meant to embrace her, but he was simply gathering her up to lift over his shoulder. She pushed down an odd bubble of disappointment and pressed her face against his back. The smell of leather, wine, and smoke wrapped around her the entire walk back to the keep.

"How did you know I was there?" She asked his comforting back, the roughness of his cloak rubbing against her cheek. She wasn't sure he had heard her until he grunted.

"That cooking cunt said she sent you there, looking for some bloody healer. There's a riot bubbling up, already spilling over in Flea Bottom. Those three useless fuckers must have wandered from there. The mob'll be at our gates soon."

"I think I heard the riot. It was a roaring beast," Sansa said after a pause. "You didn't answer how you knew I was there, though. Did Grette come to you?"

Sandor scoffed. "No, little bird. I came to fetch you to the king's side. How long it takes us to get back to him hardly matters. He's off his buggering mind on milk of the poppy."

"Milk of the poppy?" Sansa breathed.

"Aye, its the best the maester could do for his fever. It struck in the night."

A tiny spark of satisfaction bloomed in her chest, swiftly followed by guilt. She would be glad if Joffrey died from the fever, true enough, but it was wrong to enjoy his suffering. She would never stoop to the cruel king's mentality. They finally crossed through the gate she had ran from, and he gently lowered her to her feet.

She peered up at him, noting the dark circle under his eye on the un-ruined side of his face. Blood spattered from the crown of his head down his unshaven jaw. More coated his leather chest armor, and Sansa dimly registered she must be covered in just as much blood as he. He looked exhausted, as thought he hadn't slept all night.

"Thank you, ser," Sansa began, but he shook his head in dismissal. Before he could cut in with his usual chiding against sers, she forged ahead. "You saved my life today, and many times before. I truly thank you."

"Enough of that," he growled tiredly and grasped her arm, leading her to the kitchen entrance.

"Um, the guard was very ill. I don't think he...I don't think he lives still," she said and half turned back the way they had come. A new guard stood on post, already lowering the gate with a clank. Sandor tugged her along without a reply.

To her surprise, she found herself being dragged not to the king's chambers, but to their own.

"What are we doing here?" She asked him, her brows knitted together in puzzlement.

"Go grab a clean set of clothing. We'll need to wash before seeing the king."

Sansa pushed a blood soaked clump of hair out of her face and sighed. "It shall take ages to scrub this off in the washing bowl. If you could be so kind, please refrain from entering our chamber while I wash," Sansa asked as politely as she could while covered in someone else's gore.

"You've been using that tiny washing bowl this whole time?" Sandor rasped in confusion.

"I've nothing else to use," Sansa shrugged.

"What of the public baths?"

She paused, her hand frozen above the door latch. "There are public baths?"

"Aye," he drawled. Although her back was to him she knew his gray eyes would be dancing in amusement. "That was where I was planning on taking you. It'll be empty around now. The guards are all on riot duty, the nobles have locked themselves in their rooms, and more than half the servants are in bed with that fucking fever."

Sansa had never gathered clothing faster in her life. She could not answer if her stockings belonged to the same matching pair, but she cared not. Sandor led her down a side passage she had never noticed before, and stopped in front of two heavy wooden doors. He pushed her not un-gently toward the left door, then entered the one to her right after making sure she opened her own door and crossed the threshold.

A massive metal basin stood in the center of the tiled room. Curls of steam rose off the clear, clean water, and a stone shelf laid against the furthest wall. A small stack of clean drying cloths took up a portion. She laid her clothing beside the cloths, and began peeling off her soiled gown.

Only once she was submerged up to her neck in the steaming water did she realize how badly she was shaking. She let out a ragged sob and covered her face with blood sticky hands. Today had been too much. She cried until she had no more tears, then dunked her head beneath the water to wash away the salty tracks. She scrubbed her skin until it shone pink, then scrubbed a bit more after that. She was thankful that Sandor had taken her here before the king. She could not have born his cruelty immediately after facing the madness of the crowd.

As luck would have it, she would not have to face him at all. The pair made it as far as the staircase leading to the king's chambers when they were turned away by the Queen Mother herself.

"His Grace sent for her," the Hound rasped.

"I don't care," Cersei said coolly, her face a frozen mask of indifference. "The boy needs his rest and that is precisely what he'll get. Leave, and attend to that mass of pathetic peasants they call a riot."

She swished up the stairs in a swirl of silks, not bothering to check that Sandor and Sansa left as they were commanded. Sandor shook his head and gripped her arm again, dragging her back down the stairs.

She stayed in their room the rest of the day, mending a pile of Sandor's worn clothing and listening to the roar of the mob outside. She knew she would have to face the cook's wrath tomorrow, but she did not think on it. She knew the mob could break through the castle gates, but she did not think on it either. Instead, Sandor occupied her thoughts. He had looked so tired- would he be able to defend himself against the mob? Would he return from duty injured? Would he return to their room tonight or would he return only once day had broken?

She was nearly dozing in her bedroll when he returned with a clatter of his armor. The bell had tolled midnight some time ago and the smell of wine and blood washed through the room. She half sat up to peer at him through the gloom. He sat at the edge of his bed, his shoulders hunched in exhaustion.

"Go back to sleep, little bird," he rasped lowly.

"Are you injured?"

"No, now sleep."

Sansa did as she was bid, falling into an easy slumber.


	7. He's Hardly a Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! This chapter is a bit longer than usual to make up for it :)

The riot raged for a day and a night before tiring itself out, too weakened by illness to make any impact on the castle. The washer woman died three days after Sansa was sent for the healer, and Joffrey worsened each day. His original reasoning for summoning her was lost in the fog of fever and poppy.

Margery sat at his side, clasping his clammy, limp hand for the first few days, then had been banished from the room by Cersei. None knew what evils she brewed behind the barred door of the king's chambers, and none risked asking.

She could not answer where Grette had gone, but she had not seen her since the riot. Either the girl had been struck down with the illness, or she had managed to escape King's Landing. She hoped she had escaped.

Sansa carried her life on as best she could. Her work load had more than doubled from all the servant's lost to the sickness, and the castle was still filled to the brim with Tyrell guests. She scrubbed the floors until her hands cracked and bled, she carried linen until her arms ached, and lugged more washing water than the entire Narrow Sea contained. Each night, she would return exhausted and fall asleep as soon as she crawled into her bedroll.

It carried on this way for four more days, then the pattern was broken. She returned to her shared room that night, intending to fall directly into bed when she noticed the large lump already in Sandor's bed. She paused, her back leaning against the door for balance as she pried off her slippers.

Sandor never retired before her. He never so much as peeked his head into the room while Sansa was awake in it, not after that day he had found her with his cloak. They had formed a pattern and it was strange of him to break it.

She took a few steps closer and sniffed. There was no smell of wine, so he could not have drunken himself into an early stupor. She took another step and saw the sheen of sweat covering his brow, the anguished twist to his face, the shivers that wracked his body. Extending a trembling hand, she pressed it delicately against his brow and snatched it back.

He was scorching.

"The fever," Sansa gasped, panic swelling in her chest. The maesters were locked in the king's chambers, tending to the boy-king. The healer in town had vanished during the riots. She could think of nowhere else she could go for aid. She screwed her eyes shut and wracked her brain for solutions.

"I need to cool him," she decided. She faintly recalled the cool relief of compresses made of snow when she had this fever in Winterfell. She wished she had snow now, but she settled for removing his extra layers.

Sandor was fully clothed in his armor, and his heavy tunic was pinned to him by the metal. She was grateful he had forgone his mail today, for removing the plain armor alone presented a sizeable challenge. She took a steadying breath, then clambered atop the bed and began groping along the edges of his chest piece, looking for the straps that held it in place. She dearly hoped he'd remain asleep while she did it.

She found the straps and had them undone faster than expected. She pried off his metal arm bracers and his gorget,  but his chest piece stubbornly remained. The front portion was fully unclasped and hanging loose, but the back half of its length was pinned beneath him. She gripped the metal and pulled one corner, then the other, alternating as she strained. Bit by bit, the armor slipped free. After what felt like hours but was surely only moments, the chest piece was free and shoved off the bed.

Finally, all that remained was the sweat stained tunic. It had to be pulled over his head to be removed, but he was too far gone to be of any aid in that. Sansa sat back on her heels and frowned. She suddenly dearly wished he was awake, regardless of how embarrassing this was.

She crawled to the other end of the bed and pulled off his boots and his stockings, encouraged by the ease of it. She moved back up to the head of the bed and grasped his arms firmly, and pulled with all her might. He did not move. She shoved a mass of sweaty hair out of her face and tried again, bracing her feet on either side of his torso for leverage. He lifted for a moment, his head a finger's span from his pillow, then she lost her grip and he fell back again.

She furiously wiped her perspiration slicked hands on her skirt and leapt from the bed. If she could not lift him, then she would try rolling instead. It was all a matter of leverage. She braced her bare feet on the cool stone, squared her shoulders, and shoved his left shoulder. To her immense satisfaction, he tilted. She shoved harder and stepped closer and closer until her knees hit the mattress.

He was lifted by a hand's span. "Need to...get...closer," she grunted. First she lifted a knee to the bed, then the other, then she was scrambling to brace his back up before he tilted flat again.

Fwump.

A boulder of blazing heat landed atop her, pinning her to the bed beneath his massive weight. His upper torso trapped her folded legs, and his shaggy head rested against her chest like an anvil. Her left arm was bent between her stomach and his shoulder, but her right arm was still free.

"This is ridiculous," she huffed, her cheeks red from more than just the stifling heat of the room. She had never been this close to a strange man before- _although he's hardly a stranger_ , she reminded herself. She peered down at his fever flushed face, and lifted her free hand to his brow. If possible, he was even _more_ scorching than before. She pushed a lock of his sweat clumped hair out of his eyes and gazed at him for a moment while she caught her breath. He was a heavy man, and his weight made it hard to inhale deeply.

She traced a path with her eyes, first following a bead of sweat crawling along his temple, then veering off course when the droplet vanished into his hair. The unburned side of his face had sharp cheekbones, she noticed, and a strong jaw, and a square chin coated in dark stubble. From there, the burns began, twisting and melting flesh all the way up to his hairline, and then beyond- up his scalp where his hair had been burned away. She continued the path with her hand, running a finger along the scorched flesh atop his head, then into his perspiration dampened hair. She gathered the thick strands of hair and arranged them into the fashion he usually kept it.

She drew her hand away from him and sagged back into the mattress. She had spent two moons sleeping in his bedroll and had nearly forgotten how welcoming a bed could feel. Work needed to be done though, and she would not risk Sandor's health by lazing about. She sighed and wiggled as fiercely as she could manage, finally freeing her other arm from his weight.

With two arms free and her own body to brace him up, she began the nearly insurmountable task of removing his tunic. She strained her reach as far as she could, fingertips trembling in effort. She hooked her fingers beneath the bottom hem and pulled until the cloth was bunched beneath his arms, and then heaved both his limbs above his head. The cloth slid over his head with a satisfying whisper.

She threw it from the bed with more force than needed. She twisted and wiggled until she was free from him, and sat at the edge of the bed to gasp for air. The room was suffocating, and his fever wracked body had been nearly unbearably hot. She rose to open the shuttered window, but the floor rushed up to meet her before she could take a full step. Her face hit the floor, but she barely noticed.

Sansa clutched at her thigh and grimaced at the pins and needles running up and down her legs. Sandor's weight had pressed the blood from her trapped limbs, numbing them beyond any use. She groaned and flexed her toes until she trusted herself enough to stand.

She staggered to the wall and pried open the shutters, shoving her entire head out the window. The air outside was thick and still, but the distant rumbling of thunder promised the mercy of rain. Night had already darkened the sky, but she knew roiling black clouds hung heavy above. Sansa turned back to the bed, feeling cooler than before.

She grabbed the bowl of water from their wash stand and swabbed at his fevered brow. The liquid evaporated nearly as soon as it touched his skin. She swabbed at his cheeks, his neck, his chest, but it did little to lower his temperature.

She frowned at the wash cloth and twisted the fabric anxiously. She had removed as much clothing as she had dared, and the tepid water was as cold as could be found in the sweltering keep. Once the rain started she knew the storm winds would help, but until then she had few other options. She decided to remove the last bit of clothing she could.

That queer fluttering in her belly flared to life, but she ignored it as she reached for the laces of his trousers. The simple knot gave easily.  
She pulled on the hem of one pant leg, then the other, alternating as she did so until the trousers were fully removed. The fluttering in her belly returned with a vengeance, impossible to ignore now. She had never seen a man in his smallclothes before, and it felt odd for Sandor to be unconscious and so little dressed.

She kept her gaze firmly on the wiry hairs sprouting from the tops of his toes and chewed on her lip. For all she knew, he could have slept in just his smallclothes the entire time she shared the room with him. Perhaps for _him_ this was normal and nothing at all to be embarrassed over.

Emboldened by that thought she allowed her gaze to creep up past his ankles to his generously haired calves. From there, it took less effort to bring her gaze to his knees, oddly pale on the rest of his tanned body, and then up his thickly muscled thighs up to his smallclothes- or where they would have been if he had been wearing any.

Sansa spun around and buried her face in her hands. Her heart pounded and her own face felt as fevered as his had. What sort of man didn't wear underthings? He had plenty of clean pairs to wear, and she ought to know as she had freshly mended over half of them the night of the riot. She felt almost angry with him for his impropriety, and she used that anger in lieu of courage to scoop up her white cloak of a blanket and toss it upon his fully naked form.

The anger cleared her mind a bit too, and she thought of the kitchens. Slabs of meat were often kept deep in the cellars, sandwiched between great chunks of ice brought down from the mountains. She couldn't be certain the ice hadn't melted from the heat wave, but she had to try.

"I shall return," Sansa promised the lump on the bed as she slipped out the door. He did not reply, but she had not expected him to.

The halls were empty, and the slap of her bare feet echoed against the stone. She made her way to the kitchens, vacant of people at this late hour, and then out to the yard behind the kitchen. She paused at the storehouse's door. What if the door was locked? What if the ice had all melted? She shoved away a bubble of panic and tried the latch. It gave way easily, and the door swung open with a creak.

She wished she had thought to bring a torch to light the gloomy stone building, but she had not and it was too late to turn back now. She propped the door open with a nearby bucket and squinted in the low moonlight. She felt along the wall until she found the stone steps leading down to the cellar, then crept as carefully down them as she could manage. She shuffled forward and groped blindly along the walls until her hands struck something cold and wet and soft. She recoiled in revulsion, then groped forward again eagerly.

She shoved the cut of meat off to the side and swatted away clumps of straw until the smooth hardness of ice was uncovered. She brushed the slab of intact ice adoringly, then probed along the smooth surface until she found the edges. The ice block was heavy, ungainly, and pressed a wet spot into the front of her dress, but Sansa cared not one whit for her heart was light in giddiness.

The stairs were treacherous, but she managed them well enough. Staggering under the weight of the block, she emerged from the storehouse to find the kitchen yard less empty than she had left it. A dark pillar of a man stood at the near wall.

"A storm is brewing tonight," Petyr Baelish clasped his hands and smiled coolly. "You ought to take care not to be caught in it."

Any last scraps of giddiness fled in the face of dread. She had avoided Petyr since his appalling proposition those moons ago, and she did not savor his unexpected visit now.

"I'll keep that in mind," Sansa nodded curtly.

"See that you do," he advanced upon her, then halted mid-step. His eyebrows knitted together in a show of concern as he finished closing the distance between them. "Oh sweetling, what has he done to you?"

Sansa grit her teeth and readjusted her grip on the ice block. "What meaning do you have? Speak plainly, if it pleases my lord."

"There were whispers that the Hound had taken you in as a bed fellow, but I had dismissed them as prattle," he raised a hand and prodded gently at her left cheek. She winced at the pain. "He's given you this bruise, hasn't he?"

"No," she protested, "Sandor would never harm me. I simply lost my footing and fell. And we are not bed fellows- I'll thank you to not repeat such untruths. If you'll excuse me, work needs to be done. Remove yourself from my person."

She jerked her head out of his grip and frowned as she sidestepped him. Petyr's cool smile did not falter.

"Whatever shall you do when he's gone? The worst of the flock are frightened away by the loyal dog, but I wonder- how shall they behave once the fever takes him?"

"You entertain such grim thoughts, my lord. Sandor is hale and hearty. And besides," she tilted her chin up and looked down her nose at the smaller man. "It would be pure folly to harm a war hostage, and that's precisely what I am."

"Are you certain that will be enough to keep you safe?" He cocked his head to the side and fingered his mockingbird pin. "Know that there is always a place in my chambers for you. Never forget that."

She felt her mouth twist into an unladylike sneer and she spun on her heel before he could ooze more oily words. A fat glob of rain splattered on the cobblestone. Another joined it, then another, and another. It was though a dam had burst from the skies.

She ran the rest of the way back to their room. Soaked strings of hair slapped against her burning cheek, and thick rivulets of water ran down her forehead, dripping into her eyes. Sandor was more than just a guard dog she kept to snarl away unwanted attention.

He was her friend.

She hated Petyr for suggesting otherwise and for slandering Sandor in that way. She hated him for saying Sandor would die. Petyr was wrong. He would not perish from the fever- she would not allow it. She had lost her family, her home, and her noble birthright.

"I won't lose him too," Sansa announced to the empty hall, then swung open their chamber door.

She chipped off great chunks of ice from the block, and packed bundles of ice wrapped in cloth around Sandor's fevered body. She chipped until her shoulders and arms ached in effort, and replaced the melted ice every hour. The storm raged and roiled outside, and she thanked the gods for the merciful cool wind that swirled through the unshuttered window. Eventually, she could keep her eyes open no longer and fell asleep curled against Sandor's side, senseless to propriety or how damp the bed was from melted ice.


	8. Strange To Think On

Sansa awoke in the early dawn hours to a terrible banging. She shot upright and gasped in panic. Was there someone at the door, come to fetch her to Joffrey's side? Was someone attacking the keep? Had the undertaker come to cart Sandor away? She would not let them take him, not without a struggle. She swept her gaze around the room and wilted in relief.

The shutters she had left open in the night banged noisily against the stone wall, blown ferociously by the storm winds. The storm had raged through the night and into the day without any sign of weakening. It seemed almost to be a living thing, a giant beast howling and thrashing and drooling terribly. She gazed down at Sandor laying beside her, worry heavy in her chest.

He had burned through the night, never once stirring into consciousness. She placed a cool hand against his forehead and swore he was a hair less scorching than the last time she checked, but that could have been wishful thinking. She rose from the bed, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

Her bare feet splashed through the shallow puddle forming before the window. It grew wider every moment from the driving sheets of rain. She hesitated and flexed her toes in the chilled water, uncertain whether she ought to leave the window open to cool Sandor or if the damp would make him worse. She decided to close it, for the pelting rain was creating danger of flooding the room. The shutter's hinges creaked when she shut them, and the latch was stiff from disuse.

The ice block was a shapeless lump in the the washing basin, but over half remained unmelted and unused from last night. She drove Sandor's dagger into the chunk, chipping off bits and bundling them into old handkerchiefs from her chest. She peeled the old soaked cloths away from Sandor's body and packed the fresh ones in their place. She readjusted the cloak blanket for more modesty, her cheeks warm as she did so.

Content that he was comfortable and deeply asleep, she changed from her old damp dress into a dry one and toed on her slippers. She paused at the door.

"I'm off to fetch food to break our fast. I'll return quickly," she assured him. She could not be certain he heard her, but she couldn't be sure he hadn't, either.

The halls were just as empty as last night, but the kitchen was bustling with activity and the smell of baking bread wafted invitingly. There were fewer faces than before the fever struck, but there were plenty enough to keep the castle fed. She ducked her head as she passed them, conscious of the bruise blooming across her left cheek.

She scooped a ladle of porridge into a wooden bowl, pocketed a wooden spoon, balanced a pitcher of fresh water on her hip, and hesitated a moment before grabbing a skin of wine from the sideboard. Slipping away unnoticed was easier than she expected, but she did not linger to test fate.

She expected consequences to not reporting for cleaning duty today, but she knew they wouldn't be half as awful as Joffrey's punishments. She had survived him and she knew she would survive the cook.

Their chamber door swung open with a creak, but Sandor did not stir.

"Sandor," she called to him as she set down her armload on the single table. "You must eat and drink to keep up your strength."

She fetched her own pillow from her bedroll, lifted his fevered, heavy head, and shoved the cushion beneath his head. Satisfied he was propped high enough up to not choke, she balanced the bowl of porridge on her knees and prodded at his limp mouth with a spoonful. He made no move to open his mouth, not even a twitch. A sudden worry that he would be too ill to swallow the thick gruel flared.

"Perhaps we will start with liquids," she decided and set aside the bowl. She poured a cup of water and lifted it to his mouth, tilting it gently. The liquid poured uselessly down the corners of his mouth.

She pressed her lips into a thin line and sighed through her nose. She fetched the skin of wine and slowly unstopped it. She did not know what effect wine would have on an ill man, but she knew drinking nothing at all would be worse. She dribbled a few drops of the dark red wine onto his lips, half expecting him to remain stubbornly still.

A pink tongue emerged from his parched lips, then swiped the liquid away. She grinned in victory and lifted the skin directly to his mouth. His throat bobbed as he drank deeply. She pulled the skin away once he seemed done.

The skin was still heavy with liquid but she worried about running out and of him becoming sicker from drinking pure alcohol. She drank half of the water from the cup, then topped the rest off with wine. She lifted the cup to his mouth, praying he would smell the wine and not care it wasn't in a skin or as strong as before.

The gods offered a small mercy. He gulped the watered down wine as eagerly as before. She pulled the cup away when he rolled his head away from the cup. "Sandor? Can you hear me? Are you awakening?" Sansa leaned forward eagerly, but he gave no response. Her shoulders drooped in disappointment.

She stayed by his side the entire day, raising only to swap out his ice compresses and to open and sometimes close the shutters- depending on how hot his brow felt. She ate the porridge he had not been able to and sipped at the water, but the food sat poorly in her stomach for worry twisted it so. She lifted watery wine to his lips and he drank at times, at others he would turn his head and grunt.

Night fell but she barely noticed. The storm had kept the day as dark as dusk and Sansa had to light the room's lamp shortly after returning from the kitchens due to the gloom. While she did not notice the day slip past, she did notice the storm increasing in ferocity. She had closed the shutters some time ago, but she could hear winds screaming and thick sheets of rain thundering against the keep.

She half feared parts of the keep would be torn away. A small part of her wished that the king's chambers would be one of those parts, but she shoved that thought away.

She curled up beside Sandor's side as she had last night, pressing her face into his fevered arm. She knew it was terribly improper to share a bed with a man, but her bedroll had become soggy from the rain puddle on the floor and besides, Sandor was an ill patient so he hardly counted as a man. She repeated that to herself, hoping it would help quiet the fluttering in her stomach and her thumping heart.

It did not.

She reached forward and carefully pulled over a portion of the cloak to cover herself. She would have liked to use the blanket to cover herself but it was pinned beneath him solidly. She had already pulled and tugged but it had not moved at all. She had gone as far as bracing her feet against the side of the bed and yanking with all of her might, but the blanket stayed firmly.

She was half asleep when a great rumbling shook the bed. She jolted upright, and with a start realized it was not just the bed, but the entire room that was shaking. Thunderous booming echoed through the keep.

"Sandor! Sandor, you must awaken! Something terrible is happening," she shook his shoulder frantically but he only grunted and frowned. She threw herself forward, covering his wide body with her smaller one and screwing her eyes shut. She could not answer if she shrieked, but she would not have been surprised to find she had.

The rumbling finally slowed, then stopped. She gasped in lungfuls of wine heavy air and opened her eyes to find the room still in one piece. Sandor lay beneath her, completely unharmed. No rubble littered the floor. It was as though nothing had happened at all.

Fear sat like a stone in her gut. What if the shaking returned? What if their chamber collapsed?

She knew she would not be able to lift the heavy giant of a man if they were in danger. She leapt from the bed and flung their chamber door open. She ran toward the kitchen, praying to the gods old and new that someone would still be there to help her lift and carry Sandor to safety.

She burst into the kitchen and nearly wept in joy.

"Grette," she gasped. "Oh, Grette there was an awful rumbling. Come quickly, we must help Sandor."

Grette stood frozen, looking remarkably odd clutching a wheelbarrow in the middle of the kitchen.

"Come along m'lady Lamb Hands," she nodded firmly. "I'm off to the Northern side now. We'll have your man freed from the rubble real quick like, just you watch."

"The Northern?" Sansa frowned in confusion. "No, he is in the servants quarters. Isn't the keep collapsing? We must hurry before the entire castle falls around our ears."

"The keep ain't crumbling," Grette snorted. "It's already crumbled. A great chunk of the Northern quarters blew down from the hurricane thrashing around. Us low folk in the servants' quarters ain't got no shit to fret over. They built this section sturdy and real close to the ground. Those lofty lords in their towers are the fucked ones."

Sansa sagged against the wall in relief. "I thought..."

"Thought wrong," Grette announced.

Sansa studied the thin girl, seeing her none the worse for wear, although rivulets of storm water dripped from her straggly hair and her dress's hem was caked with mud.

"Where have you been?" She demanded ruder than she had intended. "I mean to say, I have not seen you for a number of days. Have you been in good health?"

"Been fine," she shrugged her bony shoulders. "That little shit of a king is sick as a pox ridden whore. His white cloaks came thundering round the keep the riot day, demanding any servant who's lived through the fever to report to the king's chambers. Suppose I was the only one stupid enough to admit it. They locked me in with the fucker and his maesters."

"Why would they do such a thing?"

She shrugged again. "Wanted cleaners who won't catch and keel over from the king's sickness. The fever is known to spread real quick like, but they hardly needed to bother with the fuss. Not a single bastard in the king's chambers caught ill after him. Strange to think on."

Sansa frowned and nodded.

"Strange how _long_ he's been sick when you think of it. Been seven days and he's not bettered. Grown men folk usually make a turn round four days- only children stay sick this long without any changes. He fell ill queerly too. I remember feeling poorly for days and days until I was bed bound, but he fell ill real sudden like. No warning, no nothing. It was just-" she snapped her fingers.

"Strange," Sansa repeated.

"Aye, but I ain't paid to be no thinker. They sent me away from the king to help his precious _betrothed_ ," she sneered the word as though it was a curse. "I'll be off to sort through the Northern rubble and hope to fuck at least some of the Tyrell shits died. Would be nice if we had a few less to clean up after."

Sansa's smile did not meet her eyes, but Grette did not notice as she wheeled out of the kitchen. Sansa's mind buzzed with activity.

Sandor had been ill at least two days, but she did not know how long he had felt poorly before completely collapsing as he had. He had looked tired the night of the riot, and that was at least six days ago. What was considered a day of illness? How many more days would it be before he bettered?

She made her way back to their chambers, barely noticing how full the halls had become. She calmly dodged the wild eyed, muddy hand maidens, barely glanced at the kitchen boys running to and fro with wheelbarrows, and ducked below shovels hoisted on shoulders.

She slept fitfully that night. Terrible dreams haunted her, twisting in shape and content. Terrible winged beasts tore at the keep, Joffrey's bloated, pale eyed corpse stalked the halls, and in the centre of it all Sansa clutched the lifeless body of a grizzled dog. She buried her face into its soft fur and wept bitterly. She awoke puffy eyed and panting many times, but fell back into the same dream as soon as she drifted back to sleep.


	9. Where Else Would I Go?

"M'lady Lamb Hands," a familiar voice drifted from the other side of the door. "Open up, you lazy lay-a-bed."

Sansa paused in wiping Sandor's forehead, but did not move to answer the door. It was barely morning, yet she had been awake for hours after finally giving up on the hope of a peaceful sleep. She felt weary and hoped Grette would leave on her own.

"I said open up! Are you deaf _and_ useless?" Grette hollered through the door, clearly not intending to leave.

Sansa sighed and rose from the bed. She unbarred and opened the heavy chamber door to find Grette, hands on her hips and glare on her face.

"Lady Margaery requests your presence, if it pleases your highborn arse." Sarcasm thickly laced her words.

"I cannot leave."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Sandor is too ill. I cannot possibly leave him."

"He ain't the first sick man left on his own, won't be the last," Grette shrugged. "That said, I wouldn't mind spending a few hours off my feet."

She shouldered the door open wider and pushed past Sansa to stand beside the bed. Sansa closed the door and crossed the floor to stand beside her.

"What've you been doing for him?"

"I've been packing ice bundles around him to lower his fever, but I'm running short of ice."

Grette nodded. "I'll fetch more from the cellars. How often you changing the ice?"

"As often as it melts. Are you certain of staying here to look after him? Won't the cook miss you from the kitchen?"

She smirked and shook her head. "The castle is in such disarray the cook wouldn't miss her cunt if it fell off and walked away."

Sansa blushed and cleared her throat at the crassness. "I owe you my thanks, Grette. Did Lady Margaery say why she asked after my company?"

"She needs a replacement handmaid, just for a little while. Her Megga is sick with fever and Elinor was crushed when a wall fell last night. She only has Alla left, who ain't much help at all. She's a sniveling little twit who can't change bedding without bawling. I was standing in this morning and mayhap used some..." Grette paused while she searched for the phrase. "...Strong words with the girl. M'lady sent me to find a _gentler_ maid in my stead, said to find you."

She knew precisely what sort of _strong words_ her cleaning partner was fond of, but she held her tongue.

"How long would this be, precisely?" She asked hesitantly and glanced down at Sandor's sleeping form.

"End of the day, most like. They're still sorting through to find the survivors of the collapse. Word is more lords and ladies are missing than servants, so there's sure to be an extra handmaid or two with dead mistresses that they'll send Lady Margaery's way."

Sansa nodded and made to move to the door but Grette scrunched her nose and grabbed her arm.

"Can't say the last time you combed your hair or changed your dress, but you ought to do so before you traipse along to m'lady. She's an awful priss about shit like that."

A short while later, Sansa knocked on Myrcella's old chamber door with her face freshly scrubbed, her hair plaited neatly back, and her dress the cleanest she could find. A small, timid girl opened the door and ushered Sansa in before scuttling off to a half unpacked chest in the corner.

Margaery sat reclining on a thickly cushioned couch, but she stood when she noticed Sansa. Her spotless cream gown rustled loudly in the too quiet room.

"How fares you this day, Sansa?" She asked politely.

"I am well, my lady. I was saddened to hear of last night's accident. I will pray for your family." Sansa chirped and smoothed down the front of her faded dress.

"As will I. Tell me, what do you think of the decor?" She waved a hand around the room, a small, stiff smile curling her lips. "A bit childish for my liking but I fear my sweet Cersei would fall into fits if I changed anything too drastically. She refused the use of this room at first, but relented when she was reminded Tyrell coin would be paying for the repair of the keep. I don't believe another reminder of that would sway her to allow a coat of paint, unfortunately."

Sansa smiled uncertainly and twisted her hands together.

"Where has the rest of your family been placed?"

Margaery's face was a frozen mask. "Not many have been found yet. My father and grandmother were spared and now lodge in the Hand's tower with Lord Tyrion. I can't answer where the rest will stay."

Margaery sat back down on her couch, suddenly looking very young and tired.

"Enough of that, for now. Please assist Alla in unpacking. Later, I may need you to accompany her to our old chambers to fetch more luggage- if anything else undamaged can be found. The storm has relented, but the rain has not and the hole in my ceiling offers little cover."

"Of course, my lady," she said, bobbing a curtsy and joining Alla to do as she was bid.

The work was dull and filled with repetitious folding and smoothing and sorting of gowns, linens, and jewels. Alla kept her mouth in a tight white line, refusing to speak or look too long at Sansa. She did not mind, for her thoughts were too busy to hold a conversation anyway. Was Sandor fairing well? Had he improved or worsened? Had Grette kept her word or had she left? A stone hung heavy in her belly whenever she thought of Sandor lying sick all alone, and so she tried not to think on it. She didn't have much success at that.

After a time, pounding on the chamber door drew Alla away.

"We have news for Lady Margaery," a gruff voice drifted into the room.

"Let him in," Margaery commanded and rose from her seat. A rough looking man walked in, his fine tunic mud stained and torn at the elbow. He frowned grimly at the lady.

"Cousin Luthor, is there any word of your sister Elinor?" She reached out and gripped his sleeve.

"There is, and of others I know you held dear- But I wish to sit when I tell of it."

"Come along, we have a solar through this door," Margaery led her cousin and Alla through an open door, closing it firmly behind themselves.

Luthor emerged alone after a while, leaving the door slightly ajar. His eyes were puffy as though he had wept. He let himself out of the bedchamber.

Margaery and her handmaid did not emerge.

They could not have received happy news of Elinor. She knew the girl was injured in the accident, and had most likely passed from her wounds. Sansa sidled a bit closer to the solar door, hoping to hear news if a replacement handmaid had been found yet. She truly hoped so.

"Tis the gods punishing us," Alla's frightened whispers carried over to Sansa. "They saw our great sin and struck us down."

"Oh hush now," another voice joined the first, soothing and calm. "If the gods were to strike anyone down it would be grandmother, not us. She thought up the wicked deed; you simply obeyed it. What else could you do? You did as is proper for your station. And besides, no true sin was committed for he lives still."

"Aye, but he ought not to. You'd be free of him if we had used the whole bottle as we were supposed to. That's the worst part," the girl drew in a ragged sob. "We went to such lengths and it was all for nothing. If the gods judge intentions we're all doo-"

"They don't," the calm voice said firmly. "If they judged all men by their thoughts the whole world would be cursed."

 _Who's to say it isn't_? Sansa thought bitterly.

"But they've struck down two of us already! Magga died from the fever this morning, and now Elinor succumbed to her injuries. When will they punish me? What terrible fate have I made?"

"Perhaps this is it. Perhaps living while all the rest died is their own way of punishing. But think no more on this for it shall change nothing. The dead shall stay dead and the king will handle himself. He'll either live on as a crippled, softer man, or he will die from his _fever_. Speak no more of this to me, or anyone else."

Footsteps neared the door, and Sansa scurried back to the dressing table.

"Sansa?" Margaery's calm voice drew near, and Sansa turned from the table to face her. "You've helped me greatly today. There is little point in sending you to my old chambers for surely it's all ruined. You may return to your regular duties and tell them to send Alysanne Bulwer's handmaid to my chambers tomorrow. The dead have little use of handmaidens, so I shall claim hers for my own."

"Yes, my lady. You have my thanks," Sansa curtsied and walked a bit brisker than was proper from the chambers. She knew she had heard something she was not meant to, but she did not linger on the meaning of the whispered words.

Sandor's face, twisted in agony kept flashing before her mind's eye.

 _Perhaps living while all the rest died is their own way of punishing._ The words rattled in her head, urging her to move faster. She had killed her own family with her foolishness, so why wouldn't the gods punish her as they had Margaery's handmaids? What would stop the gods from taking Sandor away and leaving her alone?

She rounded a corner, running with her skirt hiked up to her knees when a familiar oily voice drew her up short. It drifted closer, joined by a woman's voice. She shuddered and decided she did not have the patience nor time to deal with Petyr Baelish today. She spun back round the way she had come, but she feared she would not be able to put enough distance between herself and Petyr before he caught up. Her gaze darted around the hall, then landed on a dark alcove half hidden by a large decorative urn. She eased her thin frame around the urn and hunched down to her heels, waiting for the pair to pass.

"Why wasn't it repaired when it was first noticed?" The woman's voice demanded.

"The structural deficiencies were not of importance. Winter and her storms were far off from our summer heat and summer worries," Petyr replied smoothly.

"And now? What excuse do you have now?" Their voices drew closer and louder.

"Our funds are otherwise occupied by the war. You do recall the war, don't you?"

"Of course I do!" The woman snapped. "Surely we have enough coins in the coffer to cover the repairs without stooping to accepting Tyrell gold, don't we?"

"No," came Petyr's blunt reply. "There is barely enough to clothe and feed our army. The Tyrells have already vouched the money for the repairs and their interest rate is low. We would be fools to not accept."

"I have that smirking whore roosting in my daughter's rooms, polluting them with her schemes. I'd hardly call that a low interest rate. I don't care if the army must march naked, you will find the funds to repair elsewhere."

"We brought the Tyrells here to secure their manpower and their coin through his grace's betrothal. What was the point of that if we do not use them for this?"

The voices paused right before the urn. Sansa could see the golden skirts of the female speaker tremble as though in a shudder, then swirl to face the urn. The woman, Cersei, glared ahead unseeing.

"Of course her rooms would be the least damaged. I couldn't be granted the mercy of her pretty head crushed by a fallen wall. No, of course not," she sounded half mad, as though hysteria was only a single wrong step away. "Fine. Take their filthy money. I want that whore out of my daughter's rooms as soon as the Northern section is repaired, do you understand?"

"Of course, my lady."

The voices began moving away again. Sansa did not raise until she was certain they were both gone. She ran the rest of the way to her shared chamber, not slowing even when a stitch formed in her side. She threw open the chamber door, panting and sweating.

"Oh!" Grette leapt from the room's only chair in surprise.

"How fares he?" Sansa demanded as she crossed to Sandor's side.

Grette's thin mouth relaxed into a small smile as she moved to stand by Sansa's side. "Fine enough. His fever spiked an hour ago or so, but he's been cooling since."

"He grew iller while I was away?" Sansa bristled. "Why did you not fetch me?"

"What difference would have it made if it were me or you bundling on ice? And besides, I couldn't hardly go running into the lady's chambers and drag you back here. The nobles don't give a rat's arse about us servants, and not one of them would give you leave for a thing like this."

Sansa lowered her shoulders and nodded in understanding.

"Point is," Grette continued. "The worst of the fever is over now- once it spikes like that it'll only get lower from here on."

Sansa sagged in relief at the edge of the bed. She gripped his warm solid hand and saw Grette was right; while still feverish to the touch he was no longer as scorching as before.

"Thank you, Grette."

"Bah, I didn't do nothing any other friend wouldn't."

Sansa turned watery eyes up to the thin girl and smiled warmly.

"I'll see you in the kitchens once he's well again. Oh, I had nearly forgotten- Lady Margaery requested Alysanne Bulwer's handmaid to be sent to her tomorrow. I know not who to tell this request to..."

"I'll pass it on, don't worry yourself."

Grette left Sansa clutching Sandor's hand like a drowning woman to a raft. Sansa barely noticed her leave. She gazed down at Sandor's face, but it swam before her. She swiped the moisture from her eyes impatiently, but more followed. She took in a shakey breath and lowered her forehead to their joined hands.

 _He'll be fine. You're behaving like a bawling babe,_ she told herself but the tears would not stop.

"Little bird?"

"Sandor? Oh, Sandor!" Her head shot up as she gasped. His gray eyes were open and his thick brows were knitted in concern.

"Little bird," he rasped tiredly. "Why are you weeping?"

"I am glad," she looked tenderly up at him while he squinted down at her with sleep blurry eyes. "You have been ill for some days and I am glad you have returned to me."

"Of course I did. Where else would I go?" He rumbled and squeezed his long fingers around her slender hand.

"Of course," she repeated and smiled so widely she feared her face would split. Grette was her friend, sure enough, just the same as Sandor. Yet why did her heart pound and her stomach flutter when near Sandor yet not for Grette? She was glad enough to see Grette, but she never felt the same rush of warmth and content as she felt around Sandor.

She had no word for Sandor other than friend, but it seemed to fit poorly, too small and jagged to fit his shape.

She swallowed thickly and lifted her free hand to his face, cupping his darkly stubbled cheek and rubbing her thumb along his cheek bone. He leaned into her hand, his gaze never leaving her own. She slipped her hand from his cheek and pressed the back of her fingers to the ruined side of his face. It was smooth, ridged, and just as warm as the rest of him.

"Can you feel this?" She whispered.

"No," came the raspy, sleepy reply. His eyelids looked heavier than before, as though a weight was slowly dragging them down.

She dragged her fingers down his cheek, tracing a line from his temple down to his jaw, and then over to the stubble on his chin. Grasping his bristled chin, she paused in thought, then leaned in suddenly and pressed her lips against his.

She felt the ridged, rough half of his lips, and the smooth, soft half too. She ghosted her lips over his in a chaste lady-like kiss, then returned and pushed harder, wanting more. His lips remained still beneath hers.

She shifted her body closer, lifting her other hand to wrap around the back of his head, threading her fingers into his thick black hair. She traced the line of his bottom lip with her tongue, then sucked the lip into her mouth. Still, Sandor did not respond.

She pulled back as abruptly as she had leaned in. A sudden wave of self-consciousness washed over her. What if she was terrible at kissing and that's why he hadn't returned it? Perhaps he had no interest in her at all and he was repulsed by her. She studied his face and found his eyes closed.

"Sandor?" She whispered.

Sandor grunted in a queer way, then snuffled, then grunted again. It took her a moment to realize he was snoring, having fallen back into an easy slumber.


	10. Ladies Did Not Think of Such Things

Sandor slept soundly through the night and most of the next day. He awoke the next evening, his eyes bleary and his voice thick from disuse but his brow was as cool as an autumn breeze.  
  
"Little bird," he rasped, and she leaned forward eagerly from her perch beside him. "Need wine."  
  
Heart throbbing in excitement, Sansa fetched the wineskin from the table and poured a cup half of water and half of wine. She brought it to him, lifting it to his lips. He drank a few swallows from her hand, then swatted her away gently and took the cup himself. He gulped back the contents and held the cup back out for a refill. She did as she was bid.  
  
"How are you feeling?" She sat back down at the edge of his bed. He eyed her rather strangely over the rim of the cup.  
  
"Sitting awfully close, aren't you?" He shifted a bit and pulled his cloak to cover himself more modestly. "I feel like shit. How many days was I gone?"  
  
"This will be the fourth day you've been bed bound. I can't answer how long you were feeling poorly before then."  
  
He grunted and peeled a soggy handkerchief off his shoulder, the ice long melted from it. "Where have my trousers gone?"  
  
Sansa stiffened, her face flushing red. "Erm, those were removed," she told him and pushed away a sudden flash of memory of how pale his knees had looked without trousers.

"Aye, but where did they go?"  
  
"Over there," she answered without meeting his eyes and pointed to the far corner.

"Would you bring them to me? I'd rather not sit bare arsed longer than needed."  
  
Sansa did as she was bid, then turned her back while he pulled them on. She traced a pattern in the grain of the wooden table while she waited, and jumped when he swore loudly.  
  
"Fucking-"  
  
She spun to find Sandor sitting up at the edge of the bed, struggling to stand. From the looks of it, he had at least managed to pull on and tie his trousers without any difficulty.  
  
"Let me help you," she offered and moved to his side. "What do you need me to fetch?"  
  
"Never mind that. I can manage fine on my own."  
  
"No, I insist. What do you need?"  
  
"I need to piss," he snapped.  
  
Sansa drew back for a moment, then nodded. "The chamberpot should be over here-"  
  
"I'm not pissing in some chamberpot like a feeble old man. I can walk the ways to the watercloset just fine. Only need to rest a moment, is all."  
  
Sansa twisted her hands and chewed her lip for a moment. "I have errands I must attend to in that same direction. I shall walk with you part of the ways, if it pleases you."  
  
"It doesn't please me one bit. I'm not a frail little pup and I don't need you fawning over me with your pity and your buggering courtesies. I went along fine enough before you and I have no need of you now." His long fingers twisted the blanket into a fist.  
  
"There's no need to be cruel. I do not hold pity for you, and I must say I find it rather strange you can't see when a person simply cares about you. You see all the wickedness in this world for what it is," her voice cracked in exasperation. "Why can't you see the kindness, too?"  
  
He snorted and glared, his mouth spasming madly. She watched his mouth, remembering the feel of it, the taste of it. Her face grew warm and a familiar fluttering awoke low in her belly, but she tried to ignore it. Now was not the time nor place to moon over something he probably didn't recall.  
  
She cleared her throat and stepped closer to the large man. "I shall simply walk the short way with you in case you find yourself in need of a walking stick. If I had a length of wood to offer in my place, I would. Unfortunately we find ourselves lacking that."  
  
He did not reply. Instead he glared fiercer and pushed off from the bed abruptly, as though to prove his health. He lost his footing and staggered forward, reaching blindly for balance. His heavy hand landed on her shoulder, grip as hard as steel. He righted himself, but his hold on her lingered longer than needed, almost as though he had forgotten where his hand was. Her skin thrummed where his fingers rested.  
  
"As I said, I make a useful walking stick."  
  
She couldn't be certain, but she thought she heard him mutter in agreement. He withdrew his hand, but stayed near her side the entire walk down the hall. When they reached the watercloset door, Sansa peeked up at him.  
  
"Will you need any help?" She asked, knowing the watercloset's seat was low and would be difficult to rise from with fever weakened legs. He scowled and slammed the door behind him with such force the sound echoed through the empty hall.  
  
"I can hold my own cock fine," she heard him grumble from the other side.  
  
She sighed and leaned against the stone wall, closing her eyes for a moment. She had slept poorly the night before, too tightly wound from the kiss to fall into easy slumber. She wondered if he remembered it at all, or at least the sweet words he had rumbled to her. _Where else would I go_ , he had asked, as though he belonged at her side. She hoped he remembered that part.  
  
He emerged from the tiny room again quickly, looking less angry than before. He squinted down at Sansa, then frowned.  
  
"What the fuck happened to your face?"  
  
Sansa lifted a hand to her bruised left cheek and blushed. "I fell."  
  
"You're a terrible liar. Who did that to you?"  
  
" _I_ did," she answered simply, but his burning gaze demanded more. She should have known Sandor would rather the full truth than anything else. "I had to remove your heavy tunic, but I couldn't reach it proper. I ended up a bit...pinned under you in the process. My legs went rather numb, and when I stood... well it is just as I first said, I fell."  
  
"Mm," he grunted and looked away. "Thought I dreamed that."  
  
Before she could puzzle over that, he strode unsteadily down the hall, turning down an adjacent corridor with a slight totter. Sansa hurried to keep up with him.  
  
"We've passed our room already," she reminded him.  
  
"I know. I've not washed in near a week and I plan to do both of our noses a mercy."  
  
"Oh," she said with a frown. "Are you certain you are well enough to sit in a bath? You've only just recovered from your fever."  
  
"What did I say about your coddling? I have no use of it. Run back to the room, little bird," he said, and when Sansa hesitated he continued with a growl. "I grow tired of your peeping."  
  
She pressed her lips into a firm line and nodded curtly. She strode stiffly to the end of the corridor, turned the corner, and paused until she heard his heavy footsteps resume. She peeked her head around the corner, and found him already gone. She retraced her steps, following quietly along behind him. He might not be used to someone caring for him and she would not force him to face something he was not comfortable with- but neither could she stop herself from caring.  
  
She followed along, keeping his steps within hearing but not risking to follow close enough to have him in sight. She padded along familiar twisting halls, and pressed her back to the wall and slowed her pace when she heard his steps stop. She knew they were right outside the public baths. She eased herself forward and peered around the corner. She watched as he rubbed a hand across his tired face and sighed, then opened the bath door and closed it solidly behind himself. Content that he had made the journey safely, she headed back to their room.  
  
She opened their door and set about tidying. She gathered damp handkerchiefs from the floor, picked up the overturned cup, and lifted her white cloak from the bed. A sudden waft of mustiness struck her, and she leaned down to the bed. The smell grew stronger. She threw the blankets from the bed and patted along the mattress, finding it completely wet. She frowned.  
  
All the ice she had packed around Sandor had melted, but she had given no thought to the extra moisture until now. She feared the mattress stuffing was becoming terribly moldy from the damp and while she had never changed the stuffing before she knew it must be done. She removed the damp sheet and was relieved to find the mattress beneath unstained with spores.  
  
She set her shoulders and gripped the edge of the mattress, pulling with all of her might. The mattress was heavy, but she managed to drag it out the door and partly down the hall before she let herself rest. She sagged against the wall and rubbed an aching shoulder. She twisted her arm, stretching it out as far as she could in hopes of relieving her tired muscles. She barely felt herself bump the mattress.  
  
Too late, she noticed the pallet sliding down from where she had braced it against the wall. She lunged forward, trying to catch it before it fell, but all she managed to do was speed it along. It fell with a dull thump, and Sansa recoiled in disgust.  
  
The mattress landed bottom up, a huge patch of green mold vibrant against the white fabric. She contemplated leaving the mattress in the hall rather than touching the repulsive thing again, but she knew she could not. She tried to keep her breaths shallow, hyper-aware of the mold spores lazily swimming through the air. She dragged the awful thing through the kitchens, deaf to the curses spat at her by the kitchen staff.  
  
The setting sun cast an orange glow to the kitchen yard, but heavy dark clouds sat swollen on the horizon ready to burst at any moment. The hurricane had fully passed, but the days after still stayed rainy and damp. She dropped the slab in the refuse heap, off in the corner of the kitchen yard. She gazed down at it grimly, mind spinning. Where would she find a new mattress?

"Oy, m'lady Lamb Hands. Back to scrubbing bed chambers?" Grette asked when she found her there.  
  
"Of a sort," Sansa replied. "I have need of a fresh mattress. The straw is molding and the fabric is rotten beyond repair."  
  
Grette nodded and kicked at the lump, a sly look crossing her pinched features. "Did you happen to see the new washer woman?"  
  
"No, I haven't."  
  
"Hard to see someone who's barely around. She's off on her back for the guards more often than she's keeping watch on the washing. I would say a fresh mattress tick might be found on her drying line."  
  
Grette returned to the kitchens without waiting for a reply. Sansa found the drying line unwatched, as she had hoped, and pulled down a mattress cover she guessed to be large enough. She found square bales of straw behind the storehouse and dragged a number over. She didn't know how much was needed to fill the empty cover, but five bales seemed a safe amount.  
  
Stuffing was dull work, but it freed her mind to stew over things she had had little time to think on. Margaery's handmaids had poisoned Joffrey, there was no doubt of that. Or had they? Perhaps they had wanted Sansa to hear them and this was all an elaborate test of her royal loyalty to see if she would report their treason. If they had sincerely poisoned the king and had not meant her to hear, what would they do to her to keep her silent? She did not believe they suspected her of overhearing, but she could not be certain.  
  
She stuffed another handful of straw into the mattress, determined to tell Sandor of this as soon as he returned from the bath. He would know what to do, she just knew it. When she was done, she strained to button the mattress shut again but the fabric barely closed.  
  
"Perhaps I overstuffed it a touch," she mused, then shrugged her shoulders. She had little time to worry and fiddle about with extra straw, not with the threatening rain. She lifted a corner and grunted under its weight.  
  
Even with Grette helping to carry the mattress, it was still incredibly heavy and difficult to transport to her chambers, much more than it had been before. Finally, it was shoved back onto the bed frame and both girls stood back to admire their work.  
  
"Bit lopsided," Grette announced.  
  
"A bit," Sansa agreed. "But it will surely even out from use."  
  
"Vigorous use, perhaps," the thin girl smirked.  
  
Sansa cleared her throat and smoothed down the front of her dress in embarrassment. She pleasantly bid Grette goodnight, and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment to survey the much tidier room. She noticed Sandor's old tunic still crumpled in the corner and half rose to pick it up. A sudden realization that Sandor had fetched no spare clothing for after his bath struck her, then the length of time he'd been gone dawned on her as well.  
  
He should have returned by now.  
  
She shot up from the bed, grabbed a handful of his clean clothing and hurried to the public baths. Horrible visions of him drowned in the water spurred her on faster. She reached the baths and slammed open the door she had seen him enter.  
  
"Sandor?" She panted, and shoved a chunk of sweat damp hair out of her eyes.  
  
"What the seven bloody hells are you doing?" He demanded, red faced and completely naked. He had jumped from the tub as soon she burst into the room, and rivulets of water streamed down his broad chest, beading into the dark hair trailing down, down, down.  
  
"I brought you spare clothing," she squeaked, then swallowed thickly, trying desperately to keep her eyes from landing anywhere improper. "W-what are _you_ doing? It's been hours and you're still laying about in the tub!"  
  
She lifted her chin and willed herself not to swoon. Sandor spluttered and sloshed out of the tub, snatching a drying cloth from the ground and wrapping it around his hips. He glared down into the sudsy water and rumbled something that sounded an awful lot like 'fell asleep.'  
  
"You _fell asleep_? I warned you it was too soon for so much activity," Sansa propped a hand upon her hip and frowned.  
  
"Yes, I fell asleep. What of it? I am fine and awake now, am I not?"  
  
"You could have drowned!"  
  
His gaze shot back up to her, his gray eyes dangerously stormy.  
  
"I told you to piss off with your pity," he growled.  
  
"I told you there is a difference between pity and care, you stubborn lout," she snapped harshly, then clasped a hand to her mouth in shock of her own boldness. She could not name what possessed her to speak so brazenly, but she regretted it.  
  
"Apologies, my lord," she gasped, dropping the bundle of clothing and turning on her heel. She closed the door behind herself and scurried from the baths. Shame filled her to the brim, nearly pushing away the vision of his broad chest perfect for resting against, his thickly muscled arms ideal for wrapping around her. She shook her head fiercely. She was a lady and ladies did not think of such things. She ought to be repenting for her rudeness, not mooning over her friend. 


	11. Like A Prayer Long Forgotten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's nice and steamy to make up for the delay ( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)

The stiff backing of the chair made Sansa's back ache, but she ignored it. She was determined to stay right there until Sandor came through their door. She had pushed him and chased after him all day like a foolish little girl, much to his annoyance, and she would not do the same to offer an apology for doing that very thing.

That would defeat the whole point of apologizing for it.

She kept her hands busy with her most recent sewing project. She had already cut up two of her much too small dresses, all that remained was to sew them together into a single larger one. Both dresses were faded beyond recognition, so it hardly mattered if the fabric matched when she patched them together.

She stitched until her eyes blurred and her fingers grew numb, but still Sandor did not return. The bell rang the midnight hour, yet still he did not return. She dozed in her seat for a time, she could not answer how long, but when she awoke he had still not returned. Finally she sighed in defeat, her chest as heavy as her eyelids. He was a stubborn man, she knew, and he would not be bedding down in their room tonight.

After setting aside her half finished dress, she kneeled by her bedroll and groaned in dismay. She had assumed the massive rain puddle under the window had dried on its own- evidently it had been absorbed by her bedroll instead. The fabric was soggy, musty, horribly damp and completely unusable until it could be washed.

She peeked up at the bed, so large and fresh and inviting. She padded to it, then hesitated. Sharing a bed with an ill man was quite different from sleeping in the bed of a man she had kissed. He didn't know of the kiss, true enough, but that hardly changed anything.

Except, perhaps it did.

He saw her as a little bird, a small chirping thing more likely to annoy him than make his heart pound. He had no interest in her, so why would it be improper to lay in his bed?

Besides, she reasoned, he wasn't there now and he wouldn't be for the rest of the night, so he would never know as long as she was out of the bed before he returned tomorrow. She eased the blanket back and slowly crawled onto the mattress. It was firmer than she expected, so dense with stuffing it barely dipped under her weight.

Sleep came quickly.

When she awoke next, the warm, familiar smell of wine filled the room. She squinted through sleep blurry eyes at the hulking shape standing at the other side of the bed. Her mind was fuzzy with half fled dreams, and the dark gloom of the room beckoned her back to sleep.

Sandor removed his boots, as he always did, and threw himself onto the bed, as he often did. His massive weight dipped his side of the bed, but the mattress was so thickly overstuffed it had little give. Instead, the opposite side of the bed lifted, like a cushioned see-saw. Sansa felt a strong breeze when she was launched into the air.

All things that rise must fall, and she fell hard.

"Oof," she grunted, a tangle of limbs and blankets pinning her in place.

"Haah," Sandor wheezed in pain and shoved her knee away from his stomach.

She suddenly felt wide awake.

They stayed tangled for a few frantic moments, each of them yanking desperately at the blankets and wiggling for freedom. Sandor finally disentangled and shot to his feet, his chest heaving in exertion.

"What the seven hells are you doing in my bed?" He exclaimed, his cheeks pink and his eyes blazing in the dim room.

"My bed roll is soggy," Sansa's voice felt too small for the room.

Sandor stalked to the table and sat at it, his spasming mouth the only reply she received. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and gripped the blanket in trembling hands.

"I wanted to apologize. I ought to have let you well enough alone today only..." she trailed off in hesitation, then set her shoulders and rushed forward in a spill of words. "Only I care a great deal for you and I couldn't bear it if something awful happened to you. I know you aren't used to care or affection, and you don't need to be! Just know that I don't wish to impose at all, I only care about you and wish the best for you. I shall strive to-"

Before she could continue, he snarled and shook his head.

"I'm sure you love me well, just like one of those pomped up gallant knights from the songs. Gleaming and pure and sweet, isn't that right?" He spat viciously, his eyes blazing and his mouth spasming wildly.

"And what if I did?" She rose from the bed, suddenly as angry as he. "What would you do? Would you mock me? Dismiss me as a stupid child? Or would you twist it up into hate, as you do for everything else? Tell me!"

He ground his teeth for a moment, then slammed his fist onto the table. "Who told you to say such things? Was it that stupid cleaning bitch that put you up to this? Mocking an old dog with your wicked peeping is crueler than I took you for."

"Stop that," she demanded. "Stop twisting it round to be awful."

"What would you have me do? Fall to my knees and kiss the hem of your dress like a thrall?"

"Of course not!"

"You look a woman grown but still have child dreams floating in your head," his jaw clenched. "And I have little time to entertain them."

"I'm not a child," she protested. "I _am_ a woman grown. I've had my moon's blood for years, I've seen nearly nineteen namedays, and I've had enough grief to age me beyond that."

Her anger was fleeing, leaving a sickly, desperate feeling in its wake. She didn't know why it was so important that Sandor understood, she just knew it was. She moved toward the silent man, wringing her hands the whole way.

"I feel so strange when I'm near you," she confessed. "I fear I may be falling ill. My heart pounds so, my stomach flutters in the oddest way, and I feel so terribly warm. It's such an urgent feeling, as though I might burst if I don't do something, but I know not what must be done. If not love, what would this be?"

Sandor made an odd strangled sound in the back of his throat, then glared fiercer than before.

"Lust," he dismissed it. "Hardly know why you'd be burning for an ugly mutt, though. Had enough of your pretty princes and grew a taste for killers?"

"And what of the joy that fills my heart when I hear, see, or think of you? I wonder after your well-being when we are apart, and being near you feels like being home again. I don't need to chirp or recite my pretty words for you, I can act as myself without fear. What do you call that?"

"Foolishness," he rasped, but his eyes softened as he said it.

"Of course it is," she murmured and blinked slowly in resignation. "It hardly matters, does it? You'll only ever see me as a stupid little bird, just the same as the rest. I was a fool to think otherwise."

"Is that what you think?"

She smiled, her bottom lip trembling.

"I find myself in need of another apology. Please forget my words today. As I was saying before, I shall strive to stay out of your way."

For a large man he moved surprisingly fast, and suddenly he was upon her. His warm hands cupped her face firmly, and he tilted her head back until she had no choice but to meet his gaze. She only had a moment to study the fire raging in his gray eyes before he leant in abruptly and pressed his burning lips against her own. He swallowed her gasp.

She pressed back eagerly, her small hands curled into the front of his tunic and her heart thumping loud in her own ears. She wondered if he could hear it, or feel the pulse through her lips. His stubble scratched at her cheeks, but she paid it no mind.

He pulled back, but she followed, not willing to let her small dream vanish. Her arms wound around his broad shoulders and she balanced on her toes, raising as high as she could manage. When she sucked his bottom lip into her own mouth a shudder wracked his frame, and his firm grip pushed her away.

His chest heaved as hard as hers. She licked the taste of wine from her lips and swallowed thickly.

"I've kissed you before," she blurted. "When you were ill."

"I thought I'd dreamed it," he rumbled, his long fingers twitching against her elbows.

"If it would please you," she chirped, her cheeks burning at her own boldness. "Perhaps I could kiss you again."

His mouth spasmed wildly, but he did not pull her closer again. His eyes slid from her face and landed on the floor. "...Too drunk by half."

"Did you not enjoy it?" Uncertainty crept into her chest, nearly pushing aside the warmth pooling low in her belly.

His gaze shot back up, pinning her in place with the intensity she saw there. His jaw clenched, and then he was upon her again. His touch skimmed up her arm, then settled into her hair, gripping it tightly. His hot mouth met hers, moving against hers ferociously, sending a thrill down her spine. She felt his other hand grip her hip, pushing her backwards.

She did as she was bid, walking backward until the back of her thighs hit the bed. She let him push her onto the bed, her legs falling open to make room for him to lean over her, her arms wrapping around his shoulders like a drowning woman clinging to dry land. Her head spun with the feel of him, the taste, the smell. She felt as though she might burst from happiness.

His warm hand trailed down her hip, lower and lower until he reached the hem of her skirt, then skimmed up from her ankle to her bare calf. Her skin felt like fire, his touch the only relief she needed from the burning. His fingers ghosted up, higher and higher, brushing against knee and thigh, finally stopping to grab her soft thigh and wrap it around his waist.

He rocked his hips into her, and licked against her mouth, probing for entrance. She parted her lips and welcomed his warm slippery tongue as it slid against her own. She trailed a hand down his shoulder to his firm chest, then down lower across his stomach to the hem of his tunic. She slipped under it and smoothed her hand against the flat planes of his torso, then traced the line of coarse hair from his navel up to his chest. She reveled in the feel of him.

He sucked on her tongue as she trailed her fingers back down the hairy path. He drew in a sharp, shaky breath when her fingertips skimmed the top of his trousers. He pulled back for a moment and pulled his tunic over his head. His fingers trembled as he untied his trousers. Seeing his small show of nerves comforted Sansa, and she leaned forward to help him. Together, they had the laces undone quickly. Both hesitated, then she pushed the fabric down his hips.

His manhood bobbed free, already hard.

She had seen his manhood twice before, but she had not had the time to study it then. A small part of her chastised herself for studying it now, but she pushed that thought aside. Now was not the time for blushing bashfulness. It was a proud thing, bobbing merrily in the air, and intimidatingly large. She knew it would enter her woman's place, but she could not fathom how it could fit. The thick shaft was paler than the rest of his body, and the bulbous head was as red as his kiss swollen lips. A small bead of liquid oozed from the tip.

She peeked up at him, then extended a tentative hand forward. She swiped a finger across the head, gathering the moisture. He hissed at the sensation, and she snatched her hand back, worried she had done something wrong.

"Bold little bird, aren't you?" He chuckled.

He pulled her flush against his chest and he fumbled with the lacing at her back. Finally, with a grunt of frustration he yanked the back of the dress apart with a resounding ripping sound. Sansa's indignation at the extra mending work he created was extinguished when he pulled her bodice forward, freeing her arms and leaving her chest bare aside from her breastband. Before he could rip that off as well, she quickly unfastened the back and threw it from the bed.

She settled back comfortably and struggled against the urge to cover herself with her arms. His gaze burned a trail across her chest. She knew she was not the most endowed woman, but she thought her breasts fine enough. They were only the smallest bit lopsided, but she didn't think Sandor would mind that. He proved her right when he dipped his head and laid soft, wet kisses against the top of both her breasts.

"Oh," she sighed at the sensation. He kissed down the top of her left breast, skimming the bottom swell before swinging back up and catching her pert nipple in his hot, wet mouth. Her breath caught in her throat when he scraped his teeth against the sensitive skin, then lathed the area with his soft tongue.

Just when she thought she might expire from happiness, he reached between them and slipped a hand under the waistband of her small-clothes. She nearly shouted at the feeling. With a boldness she did not know she possessed, she reached forward and gripped his manhood. He jerked forward into her hand, and taking the queue she stroked her hand up and down his length.

He cupped her womanhood and nuzzled into her neck, panting harder with every stroke of her hand. He moved farther, probing with his fingers and rubbing gently at her folds.

"So _wet_ ," he growled into her shoulder.

He gathered her wetness onto his fingers and fiddled until he found the small nub at the front of her womanhood. He swirled his fingers, and Sansa had to stifle a moan at the sensation. He rubbed gently, then when the feeling became nearly too much to bear he rubbed against the hood of the nub instead. Her legs trembled, her heart pounded, and a queer feeling rose from her center.

"Oh, please don't stop," she begged, unsure of what the rising wave was but knowing she _needed_ it else she would burst.

"Sing for me, little bird," he rumbled and drew his face from the crook of her neck. He studied her face through half lidded eyes, and licked his kiss swollen lips, never pausing in his ministrations.

"Sandor," she gasped, and the sweet wave crashed against her with a roar. Her legs trembled madly and she gripped his arm tight as iron. She felt her womanhood spasm, his manhood throbbing and forgotten in her left hand.

Her bones felt loose and floppy, but she squinted against the sleep that threatened to take her. She renewed her caresses and strokes of his member, delighted in the smooth softness of the skin.

"Harder, like this," he rasped and folded his large, warm hand over hers. He pressed his fingers into her own, tightening her grip and guiding her hand with his. She felt her cooling wetness on his fingers.

She lifted herself onto her elbow and found his mouth, pressing a passionate kiss onto his lips. She traced the seam of his mouth with her tongue, and he eagerly opened his lips to grant her access. She gently probed with her tongue, tracing the inside of his front teeth before finding his tongue. They swirled together for a moment, then she pulled back to study his member once more. She had felt it throbbing more urgently and she was curious on what would happen next.

He pressed his forehead against hers, his breathing ragged as he moaned, "Oh, little bird."

Ribbons of pearly white liquid shot suddenly from the head of his member, coating her belly. He withdrew his hand, and she hers, then he flopped onto the bed beside her. They stayed like that for some time, each catching their breaths and waiting for their hearts to stop pounding so frantically. After, he wrapped a solid arm around her middle, molding her back against his chest and belly. She felt him nuzzle into her hair softly, and then he moved no more.

"I love you dearly, Sandor," she whispered into the quiet room. The words felt right, like a prayer long forgotten and just remembered. Deep, steady breathing was her only reply, which soon became gentle snores. She joined him in sleep quickly after.


	12. Words Unsaid

Embarrassment painted her cheeks scarlet, and she dunked under the bath water hoping to extinguish her burning face. The steaming water only flamed it higher.

"I've acted like a common strumpet," Sansa groaned and scrubbed at the dirt between her toes. Ladies did not throw themselves at men, they did not beg for kisses, and they did not allow men to touch their _intimate_ parts before marriage. They also certainly did _not_ stroke or gaze upon the _intimate_ parts of men with enjoyment.

Sandor must think her a loose woman. What if he was less kind to her, now that he knew her true crass nature? She could not bear it if he scorned her. She rose from the tub and dismissed that foolish thought. Sandor had shown he held a certain degree of affection for her and was not the sort to be cruel for the sake of cruelty. He scoffed sers and m'lords often enough to prove the little regard he held for courtly manners and standards. She knew he would not toss her aside for something as little as behaving too boldly.

And besides, she was a lady no longer so she ought not to worry over highborn concerns. As a common chambermaid she was free to be as bold as she chose. She shook her head and finished fastening her bodice. She was fretting over nothing, she knew, but it was hard not to expect something terrible to take away her bubble of happiness.

Sansa closed the bath door behind her and followed the smell of baking bread to the kitchens. She knew bathing in the morning would leave no time to break her fast before her work started, but it was a needed sacrifice after last night. She felt her cheeks redden again at the memory. She had awoken this morning to an empty bed, but she was neither disappointed nor surprised by it. Sandor was always gone before she woke, and now that he was recovered from his illness they would naturally return to their usual pattern. 

The kitchen was a bustling frenzy, filled with swirling skirts and clanging cookware and cursing shouts. Sansa smiled at the familiarity and ignored her growling belly. She fetched her cleaning bucket from the corner and made her way to the washing well.

"Good morning, Grette," she called to the scowling girl hunched by the well. "Have you heard where we shall clean today? It's the Northern section's turn, but there's naught but rubble to scrub there."

"Your lucky arse is off to the Tower of The Hand. My miserable self is back to the king's chambers. They've finally noticed Lady Margaery is settled fine enough without me, and so I've been called back to tidy up after the rotting corpse of a king. Now, come over here and I'll fill your bucket."

"I shall miss cleaning with you," Sansa did not know what compelled her to say it, but she knew it was true. She set her bucket down beside the thin girl and knelt down.

"You could come with me, you know," Grette shaved off a curl of soap into Sansa's bucket. "Up to the king's chambers. It's easy work- just scrubbing and fetching and sitting out of the maester's way."

Sansa swirled her hand in the bucket, mixing the soap in. "I don't think I could bear being locked in there day after day. I rather enjoy wandering, and my own room, and..."

"And your man's warm arms and massive cock? Of course, I understand completely," the thin girl cackled loudly.

"Grette!" Sansa scolded, wide eyed at her crude words.

"Well, it's true enough, ain't it? Listen, the girls all have a running bet going. Some say a giant man like The Hound must have a tiny prick as a jape from the gods," she twirled her knife in the air. "But me and Hinny are of a mind that a big man like that must be big everywhere. So go on, say it true. Will I be three coppers richer?"

"You are acting terribly improper this morning," Sansa stood abruptly, heedless to the washing water she sloshed onto her own skirt. "I shall not speak of such things any further. And besides, who is to say Sandor is my man?"

Grette cackled again and called after Sansa's retreating back, "You're a shit liar."

Sansa did not turn around.

The entire walk from the kitchens to the tower was a struggle. Dread dogged her every step and she found it difficult to swallow past the lump in her throat. She forced her feet to move forward, but it was a hard battle not to flee back to Sandor's room. She had not set foot inside the tower since before her banishment to the servant's quarters and she had hoped to never do so again.

Too many ghosts lurked in the tower corners.

She shifted her heavy bucket to her other hand and knocked on the tower's main door. A small, homely woman opened the door and squinted up at Sansa.

"I've come to clean," Sansa pushed past stiff lips. The small woman had a string of rotting ears looped around her neck, and she fought against the urge to dry heave.

"Hm," the short woman grunted and stood to the side, allowing Sansa to slip past her and into the hallway.

"Chella?" A man's voice drifted from the closed door of the nearest bedchamber. "Why do I hear voices? I told you to allow no one in while my _guest_ visits.

"Cleaner is here," Chella shouted back and stalked back to her post outside the same closed bedchamber door.

The bedchamber door wrenched open viciously. Tyrion Lannister glared up at Chella, completely naked. "When I said no one, I meant _no one_! I'd have thought you'd have a  proficiency for listening well- you have the extra ears for it."

"I've only let the servants in," she protested sourly.

Sansa kept her gaze fixed on the cracked stone above Chella's shoulder, refusing to look at the nude dwarf. She hoped they'd finish arguing soon.

"Come, my lion. The bed grows cold without you," a lilting voice cooed from behind Tyrion.  He looked over his shoulder with longing, then glared back up at Chella.

"Do try your best to keep the riffraff out. I shall be thoroughly indisposed for the next hour."

"Or two!" The lilting voice chuckled as Tyrion closed the door behind himself.

She was glad he had not bothered to study her too closely. The absence of scorn and scrutiny felt refreshing. She nodded politely at Chella and set about her work.

She scrubbed the solar, the small gathering hall, and Lord Mace Tyrell's bedchamber without coming across another soul. She was settling in to scrub the stone floors outside the chamber a few doors past Lord Mace's rooms when a voice carried over to her.

"Tell me, my stupid girl, do you know your numbers?"

Sansa paused with her hand suspended over her bucket.

"O-of course I do, my lady. And my letters as well," a tremulous voice replied.

"Then count! How many days has he been ill? How much longer do you think he can stay that way before they start asking questions?" The furious voice rose.

"Nine, my lady. He has been ill for nine days, but I know not h-how much longer-" the wavering voice broke off into whimpering sobs. Sansa could not quite place why the voices sounded so familiar. If she could just hear a bit better, she might be able to place them. She crept to the nearest door and listened, but heard nothing stirring.

The second door she approached held much better results.

"Oh stop your incessant sniveling, girl. It is no one's fault but your own. I gave you the bottle to use and you failed to use it properly. You must fix what you botched, do you understand?"

Suddenly, she knew the speakers.

"The gods punished us so terribly for what we did. They've struck down Megga and Elinor already!" The sobs had slowed but hysteria still laced the handmaid's voice.

" _I_ shall strike you down if you do not do as you're told!" Lady Olenna snarled.

She shivered and scurried back to her bucket. She had heard enough and had no taste to listen further. Her heart pounded in her throat and a bitter taste coated her tongue. She had vowed to speak with Sandor about what she had heard before in Margaery's rooms but had failed to. With this new information the need became all the more pressing.

She hurried through the halls and twisting stairs of the tower, only slowing her pace past Chella for a show of normalcy. Once the tower's main door was shut behind her, she ran as hard as her tired legs and tight skirts would allow.

She could not be certain where Sandor was posted today for guard duty, but Maegor's Holdfast seemed the most likely. She paused before the walkway over the spiked moat and fought to catch her breath. She squinted in the mid-day light, trying to make out who was guarding the other side and nearly shouted in delight at the sight of the hulking man. She pushed down that unladylike urge and hurried across the bridge.

"Sandor," she hissed. "Could we speak? This cannot wait until tonight."

"What has happened? Is all well?" Sandor frowned down at her and wrapped her left arm in his strong hand. A thrill shot down her spine at his touch.

"All is fine," she replied carefully. "Is there a private spot we might speak? I don't wish to say this in the open."

His back stiffened and he nodded curtly, snatching his hand back as though she had burnt him. He led her into the holdfast, round a twisting corner and then ducked them both behind a dusty suite of decorative armor down an empty hallway. He crossed his arms and stood as far away as the cramped space allowed. He was very close, and it was hard to concentrate with his warm smell of leather and smoke wrapping around her.

"They'll not miss me until the changing of the guard, and that won't be for some time. Now spit it out," he snapped, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth spasming lightly.

"You see, I meant to tell you earlier, only when I awoke you were already gone-"

"Regretting letting a filthy dog paw at you?" He snarled, his lips twitching madly and his scars pulled taught in a grimace.

"No!" Sansa shook her head vigorously and frowned up at him. "I...well, to be bold I quite enjoyed last night."

"Ah, then you must be fretting for your maidenhead. Do you take me for my brother, that I would fuck you bloody while you struggled?" His voice rose with his temper.

"Of course not! I know you would not take anything I did not gladly give. You won't hurt me," Sansa tilted her chin and refused to look away from his fierce glare. "And besides, from the sound of the gossip half of the keep has the notion we've been sharing a bed for a great length of time. Not a single person has raised a fuss, so I hardly think either you or I will be punished for our actions. There is nothing to fret about."

"You have a mind to make true a gossiped lie? For why? To prove a point?"

Sansa set her jaw, lowered her bucket to the floor, and pressed her hands against his cheeks.

"You are not to twist this into something horrible. I will not let you," she rubbed against his ruined cheek with her thumb. "I will _not_ let you. I care for you too deeply to allow that."

Sandor opened his mouth, as though to dismiss her affection. Sansa continued before he could interrupt.

"I love you, can't you see? You don't have to love me in return, just please know that I speak the truth. When we lay together proper I will not regret my maidenhead, nor will we do so to prove _anything_ to _anybody_. We shall do so because we want to. I know not how to make this any clearer."

She could not be certain, but she thought his eyes were damp when he crashed his lips onto her own. A small voice in the back of her head reminded her of the urgent reason she had rushed to find Sandor, but then he nipped at her lip and his grip was at her hip and he was pressing into her so deliciously that she could think of nothing else but his taste, his smell, his touch.

She gasped when he ground his hips against hers and cupped the back of her neck with his other hand. He pulled back from their kiss and braced his forehead against hers, panting.

"Can't _you_ see?" He rasped, his voice hoarse from words unsaid and his gray eyes burning brighter than she had ever seen them. She felt as though she was drowning in him, but she would not have it any other way.

"I do," Sansa assured him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders before raising up on her toes and pressing her lips against his once more. She sucked on his bottom lip, then nudged at the crease of his lips with her tongue. He eagerly parted and allowed her to explore. She found she was quite fond of his taste, so warm and nearly sweet.

His long fingers trailed down her hip to her thigh, then gathered up her skirts until her leg was free enough to wrap around his hip. She lifted her freed leg and hooked it around him, pulling him closer. His armor dug into her chest, but she cared not.

He groaned and thrust forward, urging the burning fire inside Sansa even higher. She broke from their kiss and ghosted her lips down to his jaw, peppering small kisses along the stubble there. She moved lower, pressing her lips against the soft skin of his throat.

"Oh, little bird," he rumbled when she experimentally flicked her tongue out against his pulse point. She trailed a hand down his armored chest, then further down to his cloth covered hip. He jumped and hissed when her touch brushed against his hard length through the fabric of his trousers.

"Please, I wish to see you," she whispered, half shocked by her own boldness.

"Don't tempt me, little bird. I'm of a mind to take you against this wall," he ground his hardness against her center and groaned. "But you deserve better than a stone wall."

Sansa was of a mind to argue that a stone wall would do fine, just to feel him inside her and to have relief from her achingly empty womanhood. As though he read her mind, he shook his head and slipped his hand beneath her skirts and into her smallclothes.

His long fingers cupped her mound for a moment, then moved lower and skimmed across her sensitive nub. Unlike last time, he did not stop there. He explored further, swirling her wetness around her folds. She felt him nudge at her opening with a finger, then slip inside easily with her slickness. She gasped into his shoulder, the intrusion a wholly unfamiliar sensation. There was a sting of discomfort at first, but then he crooked his finger and she was seeing stars. She slumped into him and braced her toes against the stone floor, desperately eager for the feeling to continue.

She dimly registered being pushed against the wall, but the cool stones did nothing to extinguish her scorching need. Sandor pumped into her gently, curling his finger in the most lovely spot each time. The sensation was nearly unbearably wonderful, then he added a second finger and it felt as though the floor had dropped away from her feet.

A building wave of pleasure broke and washed through her, sending her limbs trembling and pulling a keen of delight from her lips. Sandor swallowed her little noises and kissed down to the corner of her mouth, then further down to the crook of her neck. They stayed still for some moments, enjoying the warm press of each other.

Sansa lifted a hand to the waist band of his trousers, intending to untie his laces and return the pleasure he had shown her. His throbbing member strained against the thick fabric. She was fiddling with the lace knot when the mid-day bells rang overhead.

Sandor jumped back, his eyes wide and panicked.

"Changing of the guard," he gasped, his eyebrows knitted together in worry.

"Go quickly," Sansa urged. "I will follow shortly."

He nodded and sent a lingering, searing look down the length of her body. He seemed to shake himself from a stupor, then readjusted his hard member until it was tucked upright, hidden by his long tunic and armor. He slipped out from their hidden nook and stalked down the length of the hall.

As she had promised, she followed after his steps had faded away from hearing. Her heart was thrumming happily and her steps felt light as air. It was only while scrubbing the steps of the gardens hours later that she realized she had not told Sandor of the whispers she heard from Lady Olenna's room.


	13. Would You Find It Disagreeable?

Sansa moved through the rest of the day in a fog. She alternated between chastising herself for allowing herself to be distracted and flushing at the memory of what exactly had distracted her so. A small buzzing in her veins carried on throughout it all, spurred on higher and higher each time his words echoed through her head.

_Can't you see?_

Oh, how she saw and how her heart sang at the sight of his burning love.

Still, she could not keep worries from floating to the front of her mind more and more often as the day wore on. She knew she must tell Sandor of what she heard both in Margaery's room and outside Lady Olenna's. He would know what to do, she just knew it. While it was true that she might not like his harsh answer, it would undoubtedly be the right choice. She only hoped his answer would not involve having to stand trial and publicly report what she had heard. The royal court had finally lost interest in her, and she loathed to remind them of her novelty.

She ate dinner quickly, barely noticing the poor eating manners of the other servants. The walk back to her shared room had never felt longer. Finally, she stood before their door, her hand hesitantly hovering over the latch. She shook her head at her own timidity and swung the door open with more force than necessary.

Sandor rose from his seat at the table, his armor already shed and his hair damp from recent washing. She drew up short, surprised to see him in their room so early in the night.

"Little bird," he greeted her, his voice rough and his gaze afire.

She smoothed her skirt down and swallowed thickly. He shifted his feet and clenched and unclenched his hands, his mouth twitching the whole time.

She ought to tell him now, before they became distracted again but she worried. If she told him now, would he have to leave to report this to the Queen Mother? How long would it take him to return? Would they bring her in for questioning? She could not bear to dwell on such thoughts, not with Sandor standing before her so closely she could count his eyelashes.

He had an awful lot to count.

Decision made, she reached behind her and began unfastening her bodice. His eyes widened and his lips parted when she pulled her arms free of her dress and slid it over her hips. It fell to the floor with a whisper. She was working on unfastening the hooks and eyes of her breastband when he broke his frozen stupor and lurched forward.

One of his solid arms snaked around her back and the other replaced her own hand in removing her underthings. Her ribs thrummed where his warm hand brushed against her, and warmth pooled low in her belly.

He made fast work of the hooks, which she was thankful for. It was her only breastband that still fit and she would not have liked to have it torn off. He slid the straps down her arms and let the cloth flutter to the ground. His breath was as ragged as hers.

She lifted her trembling hand and pressed it against his firm shoulder. His sturdiness filled her with courage, but her throat still nearly closed when he dropped to his knees in front of her. His height was so much that even on his knees he came to her chin.

They stayed that way for a moment, as though both were too frightened of scaring the other away like a pair of startled rabbits. She squeezed his shoulder encouragingly and smiled softly down at his upturned face.

She saw the love shining in his eyes, so full of emotion they were at risk of spilling over. She wanted this single moment to stretch on for eternity, small and hers and safe always from the horrible world. She knew Sandor would scoff and remind her that nothing was truly safe from the awful world but he would be wrong. Nothing and no one could ever take this memory from her or taint it with their hatred and cruelty. Sansa would never let them.

His hot, wet mouth closed suddenly over the peek of her left breast, and her head lolled back at the sensation. He lathed his tongue over her pebbled nipple, then sucked sharply.

"Oh, Sandor," she gasped, and wound her fingers through his damp hair, gripping him tightly.

He rumbled in reply, the delicious vibrations shooting straight to her womanhood. When she felt as though she could take the lovely ministrations no longer, he kissed an open mouthed path to her other breast and repeated his lathing and sucking and gentle nibbles.

She found herself very grateful for his iron arms holding her up, else her legs would have given out the moment he dropped before her.  
Her lips throbbed in neglect, begging for his kiss. She cupped his chin and tilted his head back, ignoring the confused furrow of his brow, knowing it would smooth once he understood.

She lowered her face to his, short puffs of their breath meeting in the small space between them. Closing the distance with tilt of her chin, they met in an urgent, needy mess of a kiss. The press of his lips and the taste of his tongue and the sweet pull as he gently gripped her bottom lip between his teeth sent her legs quivering and her heart hammering even louder than before.

Sandor pulled away and braced his forehead against hers, but his hands took over the exploration of her his mouth had left. He brushed his knuckles against the underside of her breasts, then traced a scorching path down her ribs to her hip, his rough, calloused fingers dragging against her soft skin.

His arm wrapped around the back of her knees and tightened abruptly, knocked her from her feet and spilling her neatly onto his chest. He stood with her, her feet dangling uselessly in the air and her bottom supported securely by his strong grip.

"Oh," she gasped and gripped at his upper arms for balance. His soft chuckle shook her and brought a smile to her flushed face.

He didn't walk far, only to the bed where he lowered her as gently as a porcelain doll. He followed after her until he was kneeling over her, his weight braced on his strongly muscled arms on either side of her head. She felt as though they were the only two in the entire world.

He nuzzled into her neck, inhaling deeply as she carded her slim fingers through his thick hair. The clean smell of soap and leather washed over her like a perfume. Warm lips pressed against her pulse-point, then traveled down to her collar bone and down the middle of her breasts and then lower still past her navel.

Finally, his hot breath ghosted against her thigh, fanning a quivery fluttering low in her stomach. She thought she might melt from the sensation, then his soft lips pressed against her inner thigh and his stubble prickled in a lovely way as he moved his attention to her other leg. When his warm, wet mouth pressed onto the outside of her smallclothes she had to stifle a moan.

She slapped a hand to her mouth and wiggled away from him. His previous ministrations had left her aching and wet between her legs, but his kisses against that area filled her with bashfulness.

"Is-" Sansa started, then swallowed and forced herself to meet his gaze. "Is it quite common for..."

Again she paused, uncertain of what to call the thing he wished to do.

"For lovers to kiss cunts?" Sandor finished for her. She pursed her lips at his crude language but nodded all the same. "Aye, I suppose it is. Never done it myself, but I've never held a sweet little bird before, have I? Only paid for tumbles, and none were particular to lengthening the ordeal with an ugly dog."

"You're not an ugly dog," she propped herself up higher on an elbow and frowned down at him between her legs. His gray eyes were soft, shining with emotion and passion, his kissable mouth twitched as he thought, and his warm, solid hand pressing against her thigh filled her with fire. He was lovely, and she did not like to hear him call himself otherwise.

After a pause, she nodded and wiggled back into her previous position, both her legs splayed around his shoulders.

"Chirp what pleases you and what does not," he rasped up at her and ducked back down to his previous work. Her smallclothes were pulled down her legs and thrown off the bed.

His mouth met her womanhood, then moved as though he were kissing her mouth. Sucking and nibbling and swirling his tongue, it felt marvelous. Then he prodded clumsily with his tongue until he found her small bundle of nerves at the top of her opening.

"A bit gentler," she requested and wiggled her hips happily when he complied. He slowly and gently swirled the tip of his tongue side to side against her nub, pulling back once in awhile to lathe the area with his flattened tongue.

While the sensation was quite nice she still felt empty. "Could you- oh," she groaned when he sucked on her nub sharply. "Oh please do that more! And could you use your hands?"

"You're my lusty little bird, aren't you?" He rumbled, sounding pleased. The vibrations from his deep voice shot straight through her, and she shivered in delight. His long middle finger probed until it found her opening, then slipped in easily with her wetness. Like before, there was a moment's sting then he curled his finger and flicked his tongue and there was only sweet pleasure coursing through her veins.

"Faster," she begged, so terribly close to wonderful release. He thrusted his finger gently, then picked up speed as he doubled his efforts with his mouth. The last swipe of his stiff tongue sent her careening over the edge, her legs trembling and toes curling and his name torn from her lips.

Still half numb from her climax, she used all of her strength to sit up and pull at his shoulder until he moved to lean over her. His mouth was wet with her, and his gaze was as scorching as the summer sun. She cupped his un-ruined cheek and grinned lazily up at him.

"Lovers might kiss the..." Sansa struggled to find a polite word. "Intimate parts of females often enough- but do we ever do the same for manhoods? Does it feel as nice or would you find it disagreeable?"

"Hgm," a queer choking sound came from Sandor, then he fell silent for a few long moments. She half worried she had crossed a line by asking her question, but she had asked it earnestly.

"You don't have to do such things," he finally rasped.

"I know that," she assured him. "But I would like to try it, if it would please you. Would it not please you?"

Instead of replying, he dove into her, a crash of lips and teeth and tongue and fire. She returned the kiss with as much fervor and pressed a hand against his chest until he rolled onto his back beside her, finally breaking free of their kiss. She followed after him, clambering atop and straddling his hips.

His hard length pressed into her bottom, his trousers their only separation. She trailed her fingers down the center of his cloth covered chest, then plucked impatiently at the fabric. He took her queue and with a great deal of wiggling removed his shirt and threw it in the same direction her smallclothes had landed.

She smoothed her hands down the hard panes of his chest, enjoying the soft, thick hair that covered him. She followed the trail down his stomach, past his navel and stopped at the edge of his trousers. She curled his fingers over his waistband and tilted forward to press a kiss against his collar bone. His hot skin burned against her lips.

Lifting onto her knees, she unlaced his trousers and gently pushed them down as she kissed a meandering line down his chest, finally stopping on his left hip. She sat back, her lips curling into a smile at his state.

His manhood laid stiff and proud against his belly, his dark curls cushioning it gently. The dark pink head looked as soft as velvet, and the clear liquid beading there filled her with curiosity. He clenched the sheet below him with tight fists, his chest rose and fell rapidly, and his eyes- oh how they blazed with desire. Her breath caught in her throat, and she dropped her gaze back down to his member.

She swirled her index finger around his head, and encouraged by his hiss of pleasure, she grasped his length as he had shown her last time. She stroked up and down, keeping her grip firm but not strangling. After a few strokes, she leaned in close and parted her mouth, licking her lips in nervousness. She pressed a soft kiss against his member, then flicked her tongue out against his tip. His hips jerked and he grunted, his hands shooting out to tangle in her long hair.

His manhood tasted the same as any other part of him, like skin, and salt, and a bit of soap. She found she liked it quite a lot. She licked his tip again, and peppered small kisses down his length to his base. She paused, suddenly uncertain of what to do next.

"Does this feel pleasing?" She asked him, peeking up at him. "I find myself uncertain of how to proceed."

"Aye, feels mighty pleasing," he groaned. "Take me in you mouth, mind your teeth, and-"

He whimpered when she did as she was bid, pulling her lips over her teeth and taking his manhood in her mouth. He felt heavy on her tongue, and only half of him fit comfortably. She waited, peeking back up at him for guidance.

"A-and cover the rest with with your hand, and stroke as you were before. Move you head as you do."

She did so, stroking his hot, stiff length and bobbing her head along. She struggled to find a rhythm until he tightened his grip on her hair and guided her, carefully pushing and pulling her along, never too hard and never too far. They kept at it for a time, then she sucked experimentally.

"Fuck," he hissed and rutted up into her mouth, nearly hitting the back of her throat. "Sorry, little bird."

"Hmm," she hummed back to him, letting him know she did not mind. He hissed louder when she hummed, so she tried it again, alternating between hums and sucks and keeping a steady stroke as she did so.

"Stop, Sansa, or I'll spill in your mouth," he warned her and pushed against the top of her head until his member was freed from her. He cupped his hands over her own and pumped them once, twice, then ribbons of white shot forth, coating his own belly.

A terrible boldness took hold of her, and she swiped her tongue across a spot of his spilled seed. She hesitated a moment, trying to decide if she enjoyed the salty muskiness.

"It's quite nice," she told him. "I don't see why one would not want that spilled in their mouth. Is it improper or wrong to do so? Do you not like to do so?"

"You'll be the death of me," he rasped, hoarse and strained. She was not certain what he meant, but smiled all the same. She rose on wobbly legs and fetched a wash cloth from their basin. She crawled back into their bed and nestled into his offered side, enjoying the feel of his strong arm cupping around her back. He cleaned his spilled seed quickly and tossed the soiled cloth off the bed.

Each of them laid still for a few moments, enjoying the other's warmth and softness and affection.

"Did your day fare well?" She asked, nuzzling deep into his warm chest. She was half shocked by how comfortable his hard muscles were to lay upon.

"Was fine enough. Had a little bird visit me on duty," he stroked the back of her head tenderly. "She chirped and sang so prettily I could scarce think of anything else for the rest of my day. Wouldn't mind her visiting more often, truth be told."

Heat tinged her cheeks and a small smile curled her lips. "I shall try to slip away more often," she promised. They both fell silent for a time, nearly slipping asleep.

"Sandor," she mumbled into his chest, suddenly remembering.

"Hm," his grunt vibrated through his rib cage.

"I think something terrible is going to happen to the king."

He lifted his head and fixed his sharp gaze onto her.

"What makes you think that?"

"I...I heard talk of it. Margaery's handmaid has a hand in it, Lady Olenna too."

"Do you have a hand in it?"

"Of course not!"

"Did you give anyone reason to think you'd have a hand in it?"

She paused a moment and thought hard. Finally, she shook her head. "I've chirped all my courtesies and kept well away from him since he sent me to the servant's quarters."

"Good. Keep your head down and let whatever happens pass quietly. Make a show of your grief and don't make a peep you had a _premonition_ of it, you hear me? I don't care who they blame for it, you stay quiet!"

He shook her shoulder until she nodded.

"Good," he rumbled and smoothed her hair behind her ear. She felt as though she might drown in the tenderness of his gaze, and so tucked her head back into the crook of his neck before she lost herself. She drifted to sleep with the steady thumping of his heart pulsing against her ear.


	14. Their Small Bubble of Happiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of fluff for the couple to make up for the horrible delay!

Watery dawn light oozed through the shutters. She rubbed a hand across her sleep crusted eyes and stretched her slumber cramped limbs. Happiness filled her joints, then her her toes brushed against something hairy and warm. She shot up with a gasp.

"Oh Sandor," she shook his shoulder. "You must awaken. You are already late for your guard duty! You must hurry and dress."

"Mm," he grunted and squinted. "No, little bird, it's barely dawn. My work day starts when the morning bell tolls."

"But," Sansa frowned. "You are always gone long before now."

He slithered an arm around her waist and pulled her close. Sansa let him, but her frown did not leave her face.

"Why are you always gone so early then, if not for duty?" She pressed, not willing to drop the subject. He remained silent for so long she thought she might have to ask again.

"I thought you'd prefer it that way. Sharing the room of a dog is a far step from your cushioned lady's chambers. Thought it'd be better to not remind you of it."

She traced a jagged white scar peeking through his chest hair and shook her head as well as she could while pressed against his side.

"It was kind of you to think of me, but I've not ever thought this room, nor yourself, as a step below myself. And tell me then, why did you leave yesterday? I had clearly proven I enjoyed your company."

"Aye," he agreed and chuckled, then fell silent again. "Thought you'd regret it. When you came to me in Maegor's Holdfast I thought for certain you'd come to announce the entire tumble a mistake best forgotten and that I was to piss off."

"Oh, Sandor," she said softly and nuzzled deeper into his shoulder. "I suppose I might assume your nightly work ends much earlier than the midnight hour you return as well?"

He squeezed her closer and grunted in reply. She tsked at his previous foolishness and patted his strong arm soothingly, enjoying their small bubble of happiness within the madness of the Red Keep. Sansa felt warm, and safe, and loved, and so terribly comfortable she might drop back into sleep any moment. Her heavy eyelids lowered further, then she caught herself and sighed deeply.

"Your work day might not begin for hours yet, but mine will begin much too soon," she disentangled herself from his strong hold and scooted regretfully to the edge of the bed. "Perhaps, if it pleases you, we might spend time together after our duties?"

She traced a pattern on the stone floor with her toe, then peeked back at Sandor when the silence became unbearable.

"Would that not please you?" She asked, a wave of hurt welling up at his hesitance.

"It would please me greatly, little bird," he rumbled, a slow grin growing across his drowsy features. "Would be right fine to spend a bit of time with you outside of this buggering keep."

Her day passed in a blur, filled with scrubbing and polite nodding and sweeping hearths and changing bedding. Giddiness dogged her every step, and she nearly ran the entire way back to their room.

"Took you long enough," he grumbled when she burst through their door in a flurry of skirts. She braced against the wall, chest heaving, and frowned at the large man lazing in the room's sole chair.

"I'll have you know-" Sansa began, then broke off with a laughing huff when she saw the teasing light dancing in his eyes.

She pushed away from the wall and crossed the small distance between themselves before perching at the edge of the table. The clean smell of soap wafted from Sandor, and he had a freshly scrubbed look about him.

"There's little time to dawdle," he rasped, and reached up to smooth a stray strand from her braid back behind her ear. She leaned into his touch when he brushed her cheek. "Unless you had something else in mind, I've a thought to walk through the market. I've heard tell of a bakery open most of the evening, and I find myself with a great hunger."

He seemed to devour her with his gaze, and a familiar fluttering in her belly sprang to life at his rumbled words. She cleared her throat and tore her eyes away from his invitingly kissable mouth.

"That sounds lovely," she agreed, glad to find her voice mostly unaffected by her suddenly dry throat. "I'll need to freshen up before we leave. Might you please turn away while I dress?"

"Why the fuck would I do that? I've seen all your bits," he cocked his head to the side. "I've felt all your bits, yes, and tasted them too."

She blushed fiercely at his bold words and pressed her lips together firmly. His cheeky smile crinkled the burnt half of his face strangely, but she thought it became him and her chest warmed at the sight. She could not answer aloud why she did not wish to undress in front of Sandor, for he had spoken the truth of it- he had seen her undressed numerous times and she could say the same of his person.

The simple fact of the matter was that she could not bear to be devoured by his burning gaze while undressing without reacting in some way, and one kiss would lead to two, and then lead to the pair tangled in the blankets until dawn. She had looked forward to spending time with Sandor outside of the keep far too much and she would not allow herself to ruin their plans.

Knowing themselves as well as she did, saying such aloud would only speed their journey to the bed though, and so she settled for a half truth.

"It's different with all the lamps on," she protested with a weak shrug, and strode to the wash stand. "And besides, it will hardly be entertaining to watch me scrub my dusty feet."

Sandor snorted, clearly disagreeing with her, but he still rose and stomped to the door.

"Be quick-like," he snapped over his shoulder, then shut the door behind himself. She did as she was bid, undressing and scrubbing herself with nimble hands. She fastened the strings of her fresh dress and rebraided her damp hair, then swiftly made her way to their door.

"Was that rapid enough for your tastes?" Sansa asked politely as she shut the door behind herself.

"No," he grunted, then led the way down the twisting hall and through the keep until they walked through the same gates where she had passed the dead guard all those days ago. A new, very much alive guard nodded at them as they crossed the gate's threshold, and then they were free of the castle walls. The road snaked before them, and she was glad when he turned away from Flea Bottom and toward the market district instead.

Excitement bubbled in her chest at the prospect of spending her evening with Sandor, and on a whim she reached out and gripped his large, rough hand in her own. He stiffened for a moment, and she peeked up at him trepidly.

"Does this not please you?" Sansa lifted their joined hands and knitted her brows together in concern.

"It's fine," he rasped gruffly and lowered their hands, giving a small squeeze of reassurance as he did so.

The wind held a bite to it, and she tipped her head back to enjoy the full brunt of it. Memories of Winterfell danced on the breeze, but Sandor's warm, steady hand kept her grounded. The scorching heatwave had been broken after the hurricane, and sweet relief had washed in. She hoped it would last.

They filled the air between themselves with chatter of their day and bits of humorous tales they'd heard around the castle. Sansa did most of the chattering at first, but Sandor rasped along and laughed in all the right places.

As they neared their destination, the smells of the market washed over Sansa in a wave of baking bread and sweets, along with spices and flowery perfumes. They rounded the next corner, and a rainbow of stalls met her eyes. On either end of the road, stalls and stands had been set up, some cobbled together with little more than crates and burlap, but others were properly made with finely carved wooden signs declaring their specialty. Sandor led her to a proper stand, a brightly painted pink cake gracing their sign and a small crowd standing about it.

"This was the bakery shop I told you of," he waved the shopkeep over to them. "I'll have a cone of the lemon."

The portly shopkeep nodded his balding head, and quickly twisted brown paper into a cone before scooping a handful of something yellow from a tray behind the counter. He presented the cone with a flourish, and politely accepted Sandor's payment.

Sansa peered into the cone, and gasped in delight at the sight of the syrupy lemon slices piled high.

"Honey candied lemon slices," Sandor explained and reached into the cone for a slice. He held it up to Sansa's mouth, and she eagerly took a bite from his hand, her cheeks reddening at the intimacy. The candied lemon slice burst with flavor on her tongue, and she enthusiastically reached for another while chewing her first.

"I'll get you a box for our room," he offered, but she shook her head vigorously.

"These are delicious, but this is more than enough. Please, don't spend your coin on me. Come, let's look at the other stands while we eat."

They made quick work of the sweets and carried on that way, with Sandor offering her various items from the stalls and Sansa politely declining all.

"What of ribbons to tie your hair?"

"I have enough to last me for some time yet."

"What of pins?"

"Chambermaids have no use for jeweled pins, Sandor."

"And what of this?"

She sighed and turned to face Sandor, then gasped at the scrap he boldly held out to her.

"Chambermaids certainly have no need for _transparent_ smallclothes," she frowned. "I can hardly think of _who_ would have a need for those- they're so terribly impractical and likely to fall apart on their first washing."

She spun on her heel quickly, but didn't miss the disappointment flash across his features. They continued on side by side in silence for a few paces. She paused to look over a stall selling sugar-spun creatures, and after a few heartbeats she realized he was no longer at her side.

"Sandor?" She called out, but he must have been too far away to hear her for she received no reply.

A small bubble of panic rose, then quickly popped when she saw his tall frame towering over a cloth merchant's stall some distance away.

She watched him carefully fingering the smooth silk bolts lined up in neat rows, and carefully picked her way through the stalls until she stood by his side. He glanced down at her guiltily, as though he had been caught behaving improperly.

"Have you grown a taste for silks?" She teased, half breathless in her rush to his side.

"Aye, mayhaps I have," he drawled, then snorted and shook his head. "I know a little bird who could do with a fresh set of plumage is all."

She smoothed the front of her threadbare dress self-consciously, then shrugged. "A chambermaid has little need of plumage."

"Piss off with that chirping," he scowled.

She pursed her lips, ready to argue her point when he growled down at her, "Your dresses are more threadbare than most washing rags, and a sneeze will send all the seams of that dress to bursting. Now, come here and see if you'd be able to stitch this cloth before I tell the shopkeep to cut a length."

She nodded slowly and reached a hesitant hand forward to the silk. For a moment, she worried her calloused hands would snag the delicate fabric, but she knew he would be disappointed if she didn't at least try. The sky blue cloth slid through her grip like water.

"It's lovely," she murmured, and smiled up at his expectant face before continuing gently. "But it's terribly impractical. A sturdy wool would do much better."

"Aye, perhaps," he agreed and eyed the equally unsuitable gauze bolts beside them. "Hurry on and choose a fabric before I choose for you."

She did as she was bid, the threat of useless gauze and impractical silk urging her on. After choosing a bolt of sturdy yellow wool, discussing the needed length for a dress of Sansa's height, and purchasing the decided upon amount, a thought struck Sansa.

"You knew the silk wouldn't do, didn't you? You simply wanted a way to force my hand into choosing a fabric," she narrowed her eyes in accusation.

"Mayhaps," he rasped, then flicked a hand down to his well-made but rough tunic. "I'll not have it be that a dog is dressed better than you. I'd have thought a noble lady would need less prodding in shopping, but you've clearly proven that wrong."

"I'm a lady no longer," she reminded him and ran her fingers along the soft square of cloth in her grip. "But even as a lady I didn't have much taste for spending frivolously at markets. Septa Mordane drilled the importance of sensible frugality for a lady of the house, and while I've never had much of a head for sums, I still learned to not ask for things not truly needed."

"The weather is turning cold and your scraps won't be nearly enough. That fabric is more than needed and I'll not have you squabble about it," he rasped as he squinted up at the growing darkness. "Sun is nearly down, we'd best head back soon."

The thought of returning to the suffocating castle filled her with dread.

For a moment of madness, she considered pulling him away down the road and to the city gate. If the castle guard had let them pass without a fuss why wouldn't the city guard? Why couldn't they simply walk free from the horrors of King's Landing together?

She knew the answer of course- that the king would send men after them, that they wouldn't last more than a few days without proper supplies, that they had nowhere safe to go. She knew, and so she settled for simply procrastinating their return to the castle instead.

She pulled him from one stand to the next, fluttering like the little bird he called her. She still politely declined all his offers, but finally relented when they returned to the pink cake stand and agreed upon a box of the candied lemons.

By the time he had tugged her away from the market and up the road to the keep, the sun had long since set and shadows hung around them as heavily as brocaded velvet.

With the castle as dark as it was she could almost imagine that it wasn't the Red Keep at all. Perhaps they were returning to their own keep as a lord and lady. She couldn't quite make it Winterfell in her imagination, but Clegane's Keep fit well for she had never seen it.

She entertained that fancy until they reached their door, then she shrugged it off like an ill fitting dream. They were Sandor the Hound and Sansa the Chambermaid once again, and truly, she would not trade it for her pretty dream.

She loved Sandor, and she would stay by his side regardless of either of their lordships, but only Sansa the Chambermaid would be free to be as bold as she planned to be tonight.


	15. Already Yours

Sansa set her small bundle on the table, and looked over her shoulder at Sandor. A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and she smoothed down the front of her dress in hopes that would sooth the nervous fluttering in her stomach. She felt as though she were a blushing maid on her wedding night, which was quite close to the truth.

Tonight, she would bid her maidenhead farewell.

She knew it was improper to bed before marriage, but members of the Kingsguard could not marry and she could not imagine marrying- or bedding- any man other than Sandor Clegane. Besides, she reasoned, chambermaids were not bound by the strict laws of ladyship and so she was perfectly free to do as she pleased with herself.

From her Septa's grim warnings, she knew there would be pain. From the old woman's talk of it a _great deal_ of agony and bloodshed faced her, but she was not exactly frightened. She allowed that her expectations sent her stomach twisting, but beneath that lay excitement nearing on giddiness. Surely if it was _always_ terribly painful the kitchen girls would not giggle as they did when whispering about their men- at least that's what she told herself.

Regardless, now was not the time for girlish fretting but for womanly action, and so she launched her plan. She cleared her throat and straightened her spine.

"Sandor," she called over her shoulder. "Would you be so kind as to help with the ties of my dress?"

"You put the fucking thing on alone- why can't you take it off the same?"

His gruff reply came nearer to her than she expected, but she did not turn around to face him for that would have foiled her plan. As it was, she frowned down at the table, disappointed her carefully thought out invitation didn't have the expected response. Perhaps her tone had been off.

"I mean to say," she tried again, sweeter and nearly singsong. "It would please me if you helped with the ties of my dress."

"Aye, fine," Sandor's sigh sent loose strands of her hair waving, and she shivered at the tickling sensation on the back of her neck. "I still don't see why untying a dress needs two people."

She relished the heat of his hands through the fabric of her dress, even when his rough tugs on her ties pulled her off balance.

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to fetch my sleeping shift from my chest once you're done?" She cooed, "Mayhaps you'll help me dress in it as well."

"Are you trying to be difficult? I have little patience for running your pointless errands when you have perfectly working limbs. Do it your bloody self!"

Finally, Sansa could it take it no more, and she spun around to face him. His hands were still raised, frozen in mid-action of untying her stays.

"I am trying to seduce you, you dense man!" A delicate scowl marred her features. "I had heard talk in the kitchens that most men enjoy 'seductive dressing'. Mayhaps I didn't do it right...they were terribly vague and I only heard part of it before the mid-day meal was over."

Sandor snorted a short huff of laughter and shook his head. "I care not one whit about that shit- you ought to know I don't need to be _lured_ to your side or to your bed."

She gazed up at his dancing gray eyes, and returned his lopsided smile.

"I heard other interesting bits from the kitchen girls' gossip, you know. With only a single strand of hair and a handful of herbs, I could work a charm to make you mine forever." Sansa arched a brow and reached forward to pluck an imaginary hair from his tunic. "You'd best watch out, Sandor! Come the full moon we'll be inseparable."

He barked in laughter along with her, then shook his head and turned serious as he reached out to cup her right cheek. His burning palm kept her grounded, and she was glad for it as she met his overwhelming gaze.

"I am already yours," he rasped, his voice hoarser than she had heard it before.

Quite suddenly, she realized he had always been hers. From his first lie to the king on her behalf, he had been hers- perhaps even before that. Certainly it was long before he had dropped her chest beside his own in this very room, or even when he had draped his white cloak over her shoulders.

While she had puzzled over her affection for him, he had already tied himself to her side- she had simply been too blind to see it fully.

"Just as I am yours," she promised him, then reached up and slid the sleeves of her partially undone dress over her shoulders as far as she could. He slipped his hand from her face, and gently pressed against her shoulder until she turned around. He quietly resumed untying her laces, tugged on the fabric until it pooled at her feet, then fiddled for a few moments with the hooks and eyes of her breast band until they released.

She shivered in delight when he ran his calloused finger from the nape of her neck down to the waistband of her smallclothes. From there, he slipped his hand over her hip, trailing a burning path to her navel. He stopped there, his large hand splayed across her stomach. They stayed still for a moment, then he turned her slowly until she faced him once more.

His gaze burned as bright and hot as any mid-summer day, but her eyes were more drawn to his twitching, warm, inviting mouth. As though reading her thoughts, he swiped his nimble tongue across his lips in an agonizingly leisure pace. She wanted this single moment to drag on for eternity, but the fluttering in her belly was quickly turning to a throbbing between her thighs.

She darted up, gripped the back of his neck for leverage, and crashed into a needy kiss. The warm smell of wood smoke, leather, and a bit of old wine washed around her, filling her head to nearly bursting. They pressed, and nipped, and playfully sucked on exploring tongues until they finally had to break apart to gasp in great gulps of air. His soft hair slid through her fingers easily and she relished the sensation as they pressed their foreheads together. His rough tunic rubbed queerly against her sensitive breasts, and while she found she did not dislike it, it was still a barrier between her and Sandor and so had to be removed.

Regretfully, she withdrew from his warm embrace and pulled on his shirt until he allowed her to remove it entirely. They stood apart for a moment, both short of breath and with flushed cheeks as they took in the sight of the other.

"Won't you come to bed," she said, more of a statement than a question.

"Hardly tired," Sandor rumbled.

"Good," she hooked her thumbs over the waistband of her smallclothes and pushed until they fell to the floor. "I would hardly think we'll be sleeping much tonight."

He grunted appreciatively, then quickly followed after her as she crawled atop the large bed. She settled into the pillows and watched his large form lumber toward her, so much like a great bear come to gobble up a lost maiden. _I wouldn't have it any other way,_ she thought as her heart threatened to pound from her chest.

He hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, and kissed the calf of her other. She sighed in delight as he pressed a path of scorching kisses up to her hip, then swiped his hot tongue against her navel.

"Oh," she gasped when he finally pressed his mouth against her womanhood. He kissed against her as eagerly as he had kissed her mouth, and a sweet sigh escaped her as he delved deeper. His stubble scraped against her soft thigh with every swipe of his tongue. He drew a line from her opening up to the bundle of nerves that often left her breathless, ghosting over it gently with each repeat. She throbbed in need.

"More," she begged.

He sucked sharply on the nub, and she thrust her hips upward to meet the new delight. He alternated between his slow, excruciating swipes, and his sweet sucks, building her into a frenzy. A great wave was building low in her belly, but she felt so terribly empty.

"Inside," she gasped. "I need you inside."

Her cheeks reddened at her own boldness, and Sandor paused a moment before chuckling.

"Such pretty chirping," his deep rumble sent lovely vibrations through her sex. "Aye, I'll have a few songs from you tonight, won't I?"

He swirled his thick finger in the wetness of her womanhood, then eased into her opening. She pressed gently into his back with her heel, urging him on, nearly senseless to the slight sting as he added another digit.

He pressed his hot mouth against her once more, pumping into her as he did so. A few moments of that sent her careening, completely undone.

"Sandor," she keened, curling her toes and pressing harder into his shoulder, the bedsheet twisted up in her iron grip. On and on the waves of pleasure went.

After the spasms stopped he pressed kisses against her inner thigh, then up past her hip to her ribs. He shifted, stretching out beside her and propping his head up with bent arm. His still slick fingers glistened in the lamplight. Loose-limbed, she twisted and reached forward to cup his ruined cheek.

"Sandor," she began, then swallowed nervously before continuing. "I want more. It would please me greatly if you would lay with me tonight."

"Is that why you were fussing about with seducing and all that rubbish?"

She pressed her lips together tightly, then nodded.

"You truly want this?" Seriousness laced his grim rasp, but his warm eyes threatened to melt her.

"My maidenhead is yours," she insisted, then stopped and considered him. "If you feel too weary tonight then we shall have to wait for another time, I suppose."

"Weary?" He snorted. "Not bloody likely."

With more speed than she thought him capable of he had her once more on her back, his strong arms on either side of her bracing his weight above her. Waves of heat rolled off of him, and she wiggled until her legs were free enough to wrap about his waist.

His mouth twitched and spasmed as he surveyed her. She strained upward, pressing against him in a tender kiss to sooth his whirling thoughts. He relaxed against her and peppered a line of kisses down her neck before capturing the peak of her right breast in his mouth. She sighed happily as he lathed the area with his warm, wet mouth.

Still throbbing from his previous ministrations, she could barely stand much more without relief. An exploratory hand trailed down his firm, generously haired chest before finding his bare, stiff manhood. She could not answer when his trousers had been shed, but she was glad of it.

She gripped him firmly, stroking him as he had shown her last time. He groaned into her chest, then shifted and reached down to replace her hand with his own. He paused, one hand braced beside her head and the other gripping his manhood a finger length away from her.

She glanced to his trembling arm beside her head, and reached up to grip the limb. His small show of nerves warmed her heart, and she squeezed reassuringly to sooth him.

"Tell me if you need to stop," he rumbled. "I've never had a maiden before, not rightly sure how to ease it along."

Sansa nodded, then tilted her hips until her sex met the head of his length. He pressed forward, his head parting her lips and nudging against her opening. Still slick from before, his single thrust easily seated him inside her with a sharp sting.

She winced, more in expectation of pain than in actual sensation. She locked her ankles around his hips, urging him to keep still while she adjusted. He was much larger than any exploratory fingers and she felt queerly full, but not in an unpleasant way. She half waited for the agony to start, but her small sting was already fading.

She tapped at his arm, urging him to continue. He planted his other arm near her shoulder and did as he was bid.

He withdrew half his length, then plunged back into her as deeply as he could. A spark of pleasure shot through her core, and she gasped at the sensation. He repeated the motion, but when he withdrew she lifted her hips to meet his returning thrust, eager to repeat the feeling.

"That's right," he grunted and half grinned down at her. "Move just like that."

He slowly pulled back farther than before, stopping with only his head still buried within her. With a snap of his hips, he was deep once more. He kept that pace for a time, each move filling her with delight.

A tightness was quickly building within her, but she was disappointed to find her release just out of reach. She gripped his arm tighter, and peered up at him. His brow was furrowed in concentration and beads of perspiration dotted his hairline.

"I can't quite..." Sansa trailed off, uncertain how to word her request. "I find myself _near_ but not..."

Sandor's brow smoothed and his teeth flashed as he stilled.

"My bold little bird can't bring herself to chirp the words, can she? No mind, I'll bring a song out of you all the same."

He tilted, bracing his whole weight on the arm near her head, and pulled her free hand down to where their bodies joined. Pressing down on her slim fingers he rubbed a small circle on her sensitive nub. Her hips jerked at the sensation and Sandor removed his warm hand from her own to brace himself once more.

"Go on," he bid her, then ground his hips back into her own, carrying on the pace he had left off. She did as she was bid, rubbing the hood of her bundle of nerves.

She groaned at the combination, enjoying the feeling of fullness and the sweet throbbing wave building faster and faster with each swirl of her hand. Finally, the wave crashed in a mighty flood. She arched her back, her vision lost for a moment, and gripped Sandor's shoulder with dull nails. She could not answer if she shouted in pleasure, but she would not have been surprised to learn she had.

A low moan passed Sandor's lips as she spasmed around his member. His pace increased and she faltered, not quite able to match his thrusts anymore. He didn't seem to mind, and she certainly didn't either. Gripping his shoulder with one hand while the other twisted the sheet in pleasure, she gasped when he stuttered wildly. With a low groan, he withdrew from her and spilled his seed onto her belly.

He stayed above her for a moment, as though he had forgotten how to move. Finally, he remembered himself and rolled off to the side, landing on his back. They laid side by side, both of their chests heaving in excursion. Recalling the use of his limbs, he reached over and gathered her to his side. Pressing his face against the top of her head, he inhaled deeply and sighed. She squeezed her eyes shut tight and nuzzled into the soft hair of his chest.

She could not recall a time since arriving in King's Landing where she had felt more safe, loved, or secure as now. She pried open an eye when she felt a brush of fabric against her stomach. She squinted down at Sandor's hand dabbing away his spilled seed from her belly with the corner of their bedsheet. She reached forward and trailed her cool fingers down his chest, pausing at an old white scar.

"Do you recall where this came from?" She traced the curved edge of the mark, enjoying the smoothness.

"Training yard," he grunted, his eyes already half closed in sleep.

"And this one?" She traced a pinker scar close to his navel.

"Drunken fight."

"This one too?"

He opened one bleary eye fully, then squinted in concentration as he tried to recall.

"Fell off a horse," he finally answered.

They carried on that way for a little while longer, she tracing out a map of his form and he humoring her curiosity with tales of his battles until both fell asleep.

Sansa could not be certain, but as she drifted off she thought she heard him mumble, "I love you, little bird."


	16. Chirp Your Condolences

Laying together changed little.

Sandor was still gruff, Sansa still blushed at the smallest things, and neither spoke of the future. Truly, the largest change was the mild tenderness between her thighs she carried with her a day or so after their pairing, but that quickly faded and they resumed their lovemaking eagerly. All seemed well as they both settled into their new routine.

Barely three days after their first night, Sansa awoke to thunderous bells tolling throughout the keep. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and tapped Sandor's bare chest until he grunted and squinted up at her.

"Listen," she urged him groggily. "Why could they be sounding the bells? The window is dark as pitch and so they can hardly be tolling the morning hour."

He grunted and patted the back of her hand absently. Icy dread twisted her stomach for a moment- what if the bells were announcing an attack on King's Landing? 

"It marks a change, true, but not the changing of the hour," he paused, gathering her tightly to his side in a quick embrace before sighing and releasing her. "Best drag my arse off to report for duty. Hardly see the point of a kingsguard without a king any longer, but that's besides the point ain't it? They'll be demanding us to report all the same."

Quite suddenly, her drowsy fog snapped away as understanding dawned.

"He's...gone?" She dared to breathe. "The king has died?"

"Aye, from the sounds of it," Sandor pushed himself upright and swung his long legs over the bed edge. Now that she thought on it, she recognized the same cacophony of clanging bells from all those moons ago when King Robert had passed. Giddiness bubbled to life in her chest.

"We're free!" Sansa gasped in delight, a grin stretched wide.

Sandor snorted and shook his head. "Now is not the time for dreaming, little bird. Keep a tear in your eye, chirp your condolences, and avoid the nobles. We'll speak more of this when I return."

He rose, dressed quickly, and left without another word. Sansa pressed her face into his still warm pillow and sighed. She knew she ought not to delight in the pain of others, but that did little to stifle the joy soaring in her heart. She tossed and turned until the sky paled to a watery gray, then could take it no longer. With her mind buzzing and sleep far out of her grasp, she resigned herself to reporting for duty early. Each step to the kitchens echoed with the words sung loudly in her mind:

Dead.

Gone.

_Free._

Even at the pre-dawn hour the kitchens were bustling, and she quickly moved toward a familiar face. 

"Aye, he popped off in the night," Grette spoke around her mouthful of bread. "Right sudden some might say, but I says it was about fucking time. If the useless git hadn't croaked real soon-like I was mighty tempted to off meself just to be free of those damned stuffy quarters."

"Were you there when he..." Sansa searched for a polite word. "Was taken by the fever?"

"Well," the thin girl twisted her mouth. "No. No one was, from the sounds of it. You've ever seen the inside of the king's chambers?"

Sansa nodded and stirred her porridge listlessly as the memory of the gory rabbit flashed before her. "Not for long, and not very far."

"Right. Off the main quarters there's the solar, and personal servants quarters, and then the dressing closet. The maesters were all sleeping in the servant's quarters, and I was off in the dressing closet on the world's greatest piece of shit cot. Guard was posted outside the chamber door, but he didn't shove his ugly head in the quarters at all. He never does after Queen Cersei leaves for the night."

"All of those people in the chambers and none were at his side?"

Grette shrugged as she shovelled the last of her meal into her mouth.

"No one noticed he was dead til a maester went to piss in the night and found the king wasn't breathing."

Sansa nodded, and when the time came to depart to their cleaning sections she heeded Sandor's warning and volunteered to scrub the long neglected servants quarters. Grette eyed her curiously but didn't question her choice.

The keep thrummed with a strange energy, half giddiness and half grief. The relief Sansa had in the morning was quickly replaced by apprehension, as though a great wave was building and would crash at any moment. _A silly notion_ , she reminded herself. After all, the worst had come to pass and the king was dead!

Dead.

Gone.

_Free._

Each vigorous scrub of the stone floor marked her internal chant. She was so involved in her work she didn't notice someone had approached until they spoke.

"Pardon me," a sweet voice chimed from over Sansa's shoulder. "Have you seen my handmaid, Alla?"

Sansa lowered her scrubbing rag and twisted to face Lady Margaery. Her dark plum gown reminded Sansa of a bruise, or perhaps a roiling storm cloud. Yet despite her somber dressings, she carried no grief with her. She was coiled tightly, like a spring set to snap at any moment, but an empty smile still graced her strangely calm face. She hoped Margaery saw the wisdom of feigning sorrow around the nobles, for her current state would only incite unwarranted suspicion. As it was, her very presence in the servant's quarters was fodder for the gossips.

"Good morrow, my lady," Sansa chirped carefully. "I haven't seen her today, but is there anything I could assist with?"

"How kind of you to offer," she crooned. "I would indeed appreciate your help. You see, my sweet Alla has wandered off and I fear she has become lost."

Sansa could not see how that was possible. From her brief interactions with Alla she had seemed like a frightened mouse, more likely to cower and weep than to wander away on her own. Still, it was rude to contradict a lady and so she smiled and nodded instead.

"Perhaps she went to the public baths, my lady. If you follow this corridor down that way and turn left, then go straight again you'll reach the baths."

Without a word, Margaery gathered her voluminous skirt and hurried off in that direction before pulling up short.

"Sansa," Margaery turned to her in a swirl of silk and demands. "Check the handmaids quarters, perhaps Alla's returned. It's down the hall from my own chambers- the second door on the right. If she isn't there, check the Northern section. Perhaps she'd gone to mourn Elinor in the place she died...they were always so close."

Her carefully blank mask slipped for a moment, and her panic and worry were clear to see. Sansa knew it was deeply imprudent to drop one's mask in the keep, but with a sudden wave of concern she realized Lady Margaery might not know that.

"Of course, my lady. I will go there now," she assured her. Pressing her lips tightly together, she continued. "My heart was deeply saddened by the news of King Joffrey's passing, just as surely as yours now weighs heavily in sorrow. As a lowly servant I have little right to offer my condolences, but I am certain your fellow ladies and lords would take comfort in your shared grief. Wouldn't you say?"

"You sound like my grandmother. She kindly reminded me of that very same truth this morning- she went nearly as far as to suggest I smear menthol beneath my eyes to encourage public tears. Can you imagine such a thing?"

"I can, my lady," Sansa stood and smoothed the front of her worn gown. Margaery's candor unsettled her. "If I may be as bold as to suggest this, it would be better to return to the court now. I shall search in your stead."

"I cannot rest while she's missing," the brunette shook her head firmly.

"Grieving the king can hardly be considered resting," she reminded her. "Search the baths if you must, but then return to your family. I shall send Alla to you when I find her."

A heartbeat passed, then Margaery nodded and turned back toward the baths. After stowing her bucket and rag back in the kitchens, Sansa did as she had promised. As she hurried along, her mind raced. Mayhaps Joffrey hadn't succumbed to his fever on his own at last. What if he was given another dose of poison by Alla?

 _After all,_ Sansa reminded herself,  _Lady Olenna had ordered her to do so._

Disappearing after the king's death was suspicious and would not bode well in the court gossip. If she had truly returned to the king to complete her botched assassination, it would have been much better to quietly return to her daily life instead of fleeing. Sansa shook her head at Alla's foolishness.

She was nearly at the end of Margaery's directions with only a corner between herself and the handmaid's quarters. She slowed as she rounded it, then stopped short at the sight before her and darted back the way she had come. Pressing her back against the wall, she prayed he hadn't seen her. He had been closing the door when she spotted him and she hoped he'd not linger in the hall. Inching closer to the corner, she peered around and nearly sagged in relief to see his back retreating the opposite way. She could not answer why Petyr Baelish would have business in Margaery's handmaid quarters of all places, but she had a feeling she would not like the answer. Still, she was glad she wouldn't have to interact with the tiring man today.

Straightening her spine, she carefully made her way across the hall, pushed open the door and squinted into the gloom. Slowly, a small bed in the corner came into focus, and a low chest, and then two more beds and chests.

"Alla?" Sansa called, but the room was empty. She sighed and shook her head. It would have been wiser to search the stables for a missing horse rather than an empty bedchamber, but it would have been too improper to suggest such a thing to Margaery. A _lost_ handmaid was quite different from a _run-away_ handmaid, and the consequences were graver.

Sansa braced her shoulders and walked the long distance to the Northern section. The closer she walked, the greater and taller her wave of tension grew. She paused when she nearly reached the end of her corridor. A single rope stretched from one wall to the other, a small flimsy warning of danger. She ducked under it and continued until the floor stopped entirely in jagged chunks a few feet ahead. No roof remained overhead, and the walls to either side of her were half crumbled.

She tilted her head back for a moment, enjoying the gentle breeze.

Heavy, dark clouds gathered on the horizon, warning of rain later today. Below her lay the ruins of the Northern section, some parts nothing more than small heaps of stones and others entire room floors suspended in isolation. Far to her right, an entire tower still stood proudly, even though it was more than a little lopsided. To her left, the walls and floor had crumbled into a climbable heap she could use to reach the ground, and if she squinted she saw the lopsided tower to her right had a similar heap. Seeing this, she nodded. If Alla had decided to hide herself among the ruins the tower would be the most likely place.

Looking down at all the destruction, Sansa felt her stomach twist in worry. She scowled at herself and gently began the climb down the lefthand stone heap. She should be happy! Her dread had no place here.

Joffrey was _dead_.

Her feet slapped loudly on the stone, but her heart pounded in a deafening thrum that nearly drowned it out.

His cruelty was _gone_.

She reached the bottom, then gently picked her way through the rubble until the tower grew closer and closer.

They were all _free._

And with that, her chant was no more. Just ahead at the tower base, as crumbled as a rag doll tossed carelessly aside lay Alla in a pool of her own blood. Her father's tarred head came to mind, then the slashed face of Joffrey's maid, then a flash of Alla leaping from the tower and Sansa squeezed her eyes shut to block out the terrible images- both real and imagined.

It was clear the girl had taken her own life, but many had a hand in this death. Joffrey's madness and cruelty had pushed Lady Olenna into a corner, but her cruelty and cold-hearted scheming had been just as damaging. Poor, timid, frightened Alla trapped between the two had broken. Joffrey had cast a mountainous shadow of misery upon King's Landing and Sansa had been blinded by it at first, but now she saw; Joffrey was but a symptom of the disease of the power hungry. King's Landing, the Red Keep, all of it was polluted so thoroughly with cruelty that no one would ever be free of the shadow while they remained here. Joffrey was dead, but the evil was not gone and freedom was still far, far, out of her grasp.

She opened her eyes and sighed deeply.

A small fluttering by Alla's arm caught her gaze, and she stepped closer to see what it was. Her hand was curled into a tight fist, but a small piece of parchment stuck out awkwardly. Kneeling carefully, she reached forward and tugged until it came free. Smoothing it out on a nearby chunk of stone, Sansa frowned. A single sentence, scrawled in a clumsy, rushed hand adorned the plain scrap of paper.

_Forgive us our sin, for surely the gods will not._

She shivered as she read the words. Sansa had no wish to linger any longer, and so she gently stuffed the parchment back into the curled fist and ran the rest of the way back to the kitchens.

Her news poured forth like a broken dam, barely pausing for breath. The other servants scattered, each off to alert their masters and to spread the word. Sitting alone by the kitchen fire, Sansa dearly wished Sandor was beside her. While he might not have the gentlest words, his mere presence had a way of calming her. She twisted her hands and gnawed her bottom lip. The mid-day meal had already come and passed while she was gone, but she had no appetite. She doubted she would even have the stomach to eat dinner.

Finally content that no one had plans of directing her back to work, Sansa slipped from the kitchens and back to Sandor's bedchamber.

She pushed open their door and wrinkled her nose in distaste. The pale scent of mint hung heavy in the air, and she shuddered at the smell. She spun in a circle to study the room, then, feeling more than a little foolish, she knelt down to peer below the bed. Content she was indeed alone in the room, she sat back on her heels and sighed. Weariness tugged at her edges and she wished nothing more than to fall asleep curled along the shape of Sandor. 

The evening bell tolled when he found her still on the floor a few moments later, and she quickly rose to greet him.

"Sandor! I am ever so glad to see you. Has your day fared well? Have you heard the news?"

He frowned down at her, the corner of his mouth spasming wildly.

"Sandor?" Sansa cocked her head to the side and stepped closer when he failed to respond.

"A room has opened," he rasped, his eyes burning fiercely into her.

"That's nice," she smiled uncertainly. "Perhaps now one of the servants can have their own sleeping quarters again."

"A room has opened for _you_ ," he clarified. "I'll bring your chest over, so pack what you need. I'll not seek you out after tonight, and you'd do best to think no more on our time together."

"What nonsense are you sprouting now?" Sansa's smile vanished in place of a deep frown and she felt close to stamping her foot like a spoiled child. It wasn't supposed to be this way. Sandor was to swoop in and smooth away the darkness of her day, not add to it.

"It's better to part ways now, rather than draw out the inevitable," he shook his head in dismissal.

"Why?" Sansa demanded, perhaps a bit more rudely than she intended.

Sandor scowled down at his curled hands, and remained silent.

"Why must we part?" She pressed. "I have declared and proven my love for you, and you have lent me a strong notion you feel the same. As I have said, I am a chambermaid and so have no need for a spotless reputation- and besides all of that, I truly wish to live with you."

Finally, he spoke.

"The king is dead. His softhearted, softheaded, sane brother will soon take the throne. Do you truly think he will leave you to rot in the servant's quarters?"

"Yes, I do think that. And even if he doesn't, tell me the difference it will make! I shall still love you."

"He will pluck you from the servant's quarters and toss you back into your prison of a tower chamber, or he'll pardon your farce of treason and marry you off to a Lannister cousin. Would be right useful to strengthen ties between the North and the South. The _difference_ will be a husband or a prison chamber between us."

"Then we'll leave! We shall pack supplies and ride your horse North to meet with my brother Robb. His army will offer protection from the king's men if they come after us," she swallowed thickly. "Truthfully, I've heard no word of him for the past moons so I am not certain of his current camp or if his army still stands. I cannot say that we could even outrun the search party. Perhaps it would be better to hire a boat and sail across the Narrow Sea. We could stay there for a time- just until the war is over."

"Little bird," he sighed miserably. He didn't need to say more.

She knew they would never be able to hire a boat without notice from the guards, she knew her brother would likely not win the war, and she knew Sandor was right about Tommen. She found she was not overly fond of it when he was right.

"Tell me, if I am doomed to rot in a cell or marry an enemy, why would you deny me my last scraps of joy? Come," she stretched out her arms and beckoned him closer. "Fill my head with memories, and I will do the same for you."

He followed, pressing his face into her neck and holding her so closely she feared she may snap in half. She didn't mind.

"I can't bear it if they tear you away," his mumbled words came thick. "I wish to cut them all down, yes, all of those miserable, useless fuckers. I don't want bloody memories- I want _you_."

"King's Landing has forgotten I exist, perhaps Tommen has as well. If he hasn't, do you truly think we must bend and allow it to pass?" She stroked his soft hair and blinked back threatening tears. "We shall visit all the same if they lock me back into my old chambers, and I shall refuse wedding vows if a betrothal brews. As much as they wish, they cannot force a marriage without consent from both husband and bride. Perhaps running now is foolish, but if all fails we can wait for the right moment, can't we?"

The stench of mint still hung over the room thickly, and she found she could not endure it for a moment longer.

"Come," she urged. "I reek of the dusty corners I searched today, and you have training yard grime coating your hair. If it pleases you, won't you join me in the bath?"

He pulled away and nodded. Before leaving for the public baths, Sansa threw open their shutters in hopes the cloying smell would fade by their return.


End file.
